Digging Deep
by Trikkster
Summary: At some point, every man must face his inner darkness. Some men's minds embrace and grow in the darkness, other men's minds are shattered from it. But what will Ryan Hardy do, when he is forced to face his own darkness? In a tale of twists and manipulation, the reader may now find out. Warning: OOC. Spoilers! (please read author's note) Also, multiple character deaths occur.
1. Author's Note

**_Disclaimer: I do not own the show "The Following", or any of its characters or plot! This is simply me writing a fanfic concerning the show!_**

_Dear whoever may read this fanfiction,_

_ Before you begin I would like to make a few things clear. First off, this story contains graphic scenes, and forms of psychosis, particularly pertaining to Ryan Hardy and Joe Carroll as they are portrayed in my story. As a result of the latter, please understand that Ryan and Joe may seem out of character at certain parts. I say this now because I do not want you to get offended by it later. Just know that you have been warned. _

_ Secondly, this story does involve both psychological and physical torture. The first is primarily felt by Ryan Hardy, and the latter will most likely be felt by other characters from the show. I would like for you to know that this is not simply a torture fic, however. This is more or less an exercise in both my knowledge of psychology (since I am in my senior year of becoming a psychology major from my local college) and my own feelings pertaining to the darkness of human nature. Since I was a highschooler, I have adored __Heart of Darkness __by Joseph Conrad, and how it displays the darkness of man and the effects of facing this darkness can have on one's psyche. To me, I believe that there is good and evil in all of us, and it is our decision ultimately as to which side we will cater to. I will attempt to display that in this story. That is this story's purpose, not just mindless torture. Because believe me, I adored Ryan Hardy from The Following. And would not be writing this if I didn't not have a greater purpose than torture in mind._

_ Overall, I feel that this story will one of the best I've ever written, from the prologue right to the epilogue in the end. This show has inspired me to write this story, and ever since the idea began to solidify in my mind, I have watched the episodes at least 2 or more times over and over again to make sure that I can understand the characters as best as I can. I am going to put all that I know about good quality writing into this Fanfiction, to make it both entertaining and easy to understand. That is my vow to you, the reader._

_ Although I may not be able to update it on a regular basis, I will try to update it as much as I can, and will try to present quality material each time. _

_ Now, if you're still reading this and still want to read the story, I have one final thing to say: this story is a story about looking back and retelling events that have occurred prior to its beginning, and the time at which the story begins is set one year after the episode "**Guilt**", while the events described in the story occur directly after "Whips and Regret". So basically, the first chapter occurs one year after "**Guilt**", and the chapters after that occur right after "Whips and Regret", up until the two final chapters. So I would recommend watching The Following up to right after "**Guilt**", which is where my story deviates from the show, prior to reading this story. Furthermore, there may be **spoilers that involve information leading up to the end of the episode:**"The Curse", although in my story there is a bit of deviation from the original information provided in the show. I took artistic liberty with that._

_ Finally, I'm going to say this: THERE WILL BE ZERO RYANXJOE INTERCOURSE OR ANYTHING ROMANTICALLY INTIMATE OCCURING BETWEEN THEM IN THIS STORY. IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT, I SUGGEST YOU TURN AROUND NOW. I'm not saying I'm against that type of story. That's just not what this story is going to be. _

_ I think that's it! If you like what I've described for you, please continue, read, review, and give me any comments, anything this story made you think of, or any critique! I would love to hear what you have to say!_

_Yours,_

_Trikkster_


	2. Rusted from the Reign

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own the show "The Following" or its characters. The show and its awesome characters belong to their respective owners. I will also never own the song "Rusted From The Rain". The song and its lyrics belongs to Billy Talent.**

"_**I stumble through the wreckage rusted from the rain**_

_** There's nothin' left to salvage, no one left to blame**_

_**Among the broken mirrors I don't look the same**_

_** I'm rusted from the rain, I'm rusted from the rain. . ." **__**–"Rusted from the Rain" by Billy Talent**_

Ryan Hardy walked slowly down the street towards the Havenport police station, his face set in an emotionless mask, tilted down in shame. One could see the paths that his tears had made as they'd run slowly down his aged cheeks. He glanced up, his eyes focusing on the Police Station, his lips twitching a little, teeth chattering against the cold air around him, as he reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a gray cloth. His eyes twitched, as he worked the cloth furiously across his still clean hands. He began to move his hands violently, as if they weren't getting off what he knew to be there. He looked down at them and shook his head, eyes twitching, his whole back jerking, before looking back up at the cold police station. He began to mumble under his breath, his damaged mind only able to focus on the mantra that flowed out of his lips, his furious need to wipe his hands clean, and his need to get to that police station. He wasn't entirely sure why he needed to get to that police station, but then again he wasn't sure of anything anymore. But something in him knew that in that police station, he would find security and safety. And right now, those were the things his soul craved more than the air he breathed.

He saw the FBI vans around it, and something about the gold lettering on the sides of the vans sent a wave of comfort over him. He didn't entirely understand why they elicited such an emotion, but he acknowledged that comfort, craved more of it, and pressed his body onward, continuing to wipe his hands with the cloth . . . and then. . . Weston burst out onto the front stoop of the station, and stared at him, "OH MY GOD, RYAN!" he rushed over and quickly wrapped his arms against the man. Ryan jerked and continued to mumble incoherently. But didn't fight Weston's hold. He was nervous about the man's close vicinity, and was even more nervous about the man wrapping his arms around. It startled him, put him on edge. But at the same time, his mind, despite the chaos it was under currently, registered that the man as not a threat, but rather a face from a distant time. And Ryan therefore chose to accept him. "Oh god, Ryan, we thought you'd been killed! Come on, come on inside!" Weston said, gazing a worried look over his former partner. It'd been roughly a year since Ryan had disappeared.

Weston, although offered a higher position in the FBI back in Quantico now that Joe's cult was a cold case because the killings having stopped with Ryan's disappearance a year prior, had decided to stay behind, hoping against all hope that Ryan would somehow show up again. A woman had been seen leaving a bar with a man fitting Ryan's description the previous night one town over, and that had given Weston some hope. But he'd never dreamed of Ryan showing up at their door step. Still, that didn't mean he was extremely happy. Ryan didn't look to be in a proper state of mind, after all. He'd get the former agent inside and get him some food and drink. Maybe that would calm Ryan down. . . As he led Ryan into the police station, Ryan glanced at the agent nervously, as a barrage of memories of the man came into his mind. It was him, Ryan, standing beside Mike . . . yes, Mike was his name . . .Ryan was able to remember that now. . . gazing at computer screens, shooting down other men, etc. These memories at first confused Ryan. But as he continued to gaze at Mike, he began to accept those memories. Perhaps at one moment he had fought alongside and trusted this man. And although that time was long gone by now, maybe that was why deep down he knew that he could trust him now. Ryan clung to that thought, cherished it. He wanted someone to be able to trust now, more than ever. And he only hoped he could trust Mike.

Ryan leaned forward in his seat in the police office, wringing his cloth between his hands some more, mumbling quickly, eyes not even taking in the office, only focused on the cloth. He blocked out the people staring at him from his perceptual field. He didn't want to see their faces. His mind was full of faces already. And none of them gave him any comfort. Well, most of them didn't . . . maybe one or two did. Weston frowned, and slowly slid the Styrofoam plate of pulled pork, baked beans, cole slaw, and bread towards Ryan, "Ryan . . . Ryan, I have some food for you. . ." Ryan turned his head a bit, glancing at the food, flared his nostrils as he took in his sent, and looked like he was about to reach for the plastic fork that Mike was offering him. Then the man just shook his head and began to tremble more and turned back to his cloth, mumbling once again. Weston sighed. He couldn't imagine what could have happened to make Ryan unwilling to eat. "Ryan, you need to eat. . . I'm sure you need something to eat." Ryan shook his head, and continued to mumble and wring the cloth. Weston frowned and tilted his head, "Is your stomach full, then, Ryan?" Ryan bowed his head; eyes shut tight, and wrung the cloth in his hands even more. Weston sighed, and rubbed Ryan gently on the back. The agent twitched and whimpered a little as he jerked away.

Weston frowned. He was unsure if Ryan was reacting negatively to him touching that place specifically, or just to him touching him at all. He intended to find out. "R-Ryan? Ryan are you hurt there? Are you hurt where I touched you?" Ryan ducked his head down lower, still wringing the cloth, and his mumbling heightened in volume. Weston frowned, catching the words "Caress the neck", "Become one with the victim", and "Pierce the body here, where it's less fatal", which sent a chill down his spine. The agent tried to shake off the sickening feeling he was getting in the pit of his stomach, and he leaned down, deciding to not pay very much attention to the words Ryan was mumbling over and over again as he whispered in Ryan's ear, "Ryan, How about we get this jacket off of you? It's kinda warm in here, you know. Do you really think you need it?"

Ryan didn't show any sign that he heard the other agent, and shut his eyes tight, mumbling louder and quicker. His words began to run together, and Weston couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying. Weston sighed, and slowly moved behind him, moving his arms down Ryan's arms gently, as if Ryan was a porcelain doll that could break at any moment. In a way, he supposed, he viewed Ryan like that. Just not with his physical body being so fragile. Rather, it was Ryan's mind that Weston was worried about breaking . . . and that was only assuming that it wasn't completely shattered already. He sighed, as his fingers moved along Ryan's finger tips, gazing sadly at the cloth in Ryan's hands. Ryan began to work it quicker between his hands; his back and arm muscles jerking a little. As if he knew what Weston was about to want him to do. Weston sighed. This would NOT be easy. But Ryan hadn't lashed out to anyone yet . . . if anything, he'd only withdrawn. Weston hoped that because of that, Ryan wouldn't actually try to harm Weston should he attempt to move the cloth.

It was with that thought that Weston continued to whisper in Ryan's ear, _"I need to get this rag out of your hands and then get this coat off of you. . ."_ he moved his fingers to the rag and gripping it, gave a light tug. Ryan panicked, and out of that panic, his body seemed to come to life. His arm flew back and elbowed Mike hard in the chest and causing the agent to stumble backwards, before the panicked man quickly apologized for harming Mike and rushed to a corner to cower, panting and continuing to wring the cloth in his hands, staring down at it with fearful, crazed eyes. Mike groaned, gazing at Ryan's panicky state, at the shifting eyes, at the fear oozing from each pore of his body. He sighed and walked over, slowly, driven forward by his need to help the other man. Ryan's eyes darted to him as he saw Mike getting close, but didn't rest on Weston and darted back down to the cloth. Like he was afraid to look Mike in the eye . . . as if he felt he couldn't look Mike in the eye . . . as if he felt it was inappropriate. . . Mike whispered, "Ryan, what's happened to you? What's made you this way?" he whispered. New tears raced down Ryan's cheeks as he whimpered, and after quickly balling the cloth up and holding it tightly between his fingers, he lifted the balled up cloth to his mouth, clamping his mouth over it and sobbing brokenly into it, his eyes closed tightly.

"_Ryan_," Mike whispered, gazing worriedly at the man. Ryan turned to him, eyes still flowing with tears, his teeth biting deeply into the cloth, muffling his sobs. But at least he was focusing on Mike. Mike licked his lips nervously, _"Ryan, can you just hold that in one hand right now? So that I can get one of your arms out of the trench coat sleeve? That's all I need Ryan,"_ Mike whispered. Ryan frowned a little, and then nodded, lessening the hold of his teeth on the cloth, closing his eyes.

As Mike removed the last of the coat, he saw something that chilled him further as Ryan's arms moved back to hold the cloth tightly, Ryan whimpering gently and closing his eyes. Dark burgundy blood stains covered the man's entire shirt in the front. _"Ryan, is . . . is that your blood?"_ Mike whispered, pointing shakily at them. Ryan whimpered and shook his head, moving the cloth away from his mouth before once again mumbling quickly incoherently. "Ryan, whose blood is that?" Mike said again in a still gentle but firmer voice. Ryan whimpered and ducked his head further down, and began to wring the cloth more in his hands, panting a little as tears raced down his face even more. "_Ryan_," Mike whispered with worried eyes, as he gritted his teeth and gripped Ryan's arm and tried to hoist him up from the floor. Ryan whimpered, and ducked his head down even more, between his knees, jerking his arm out of Mike's grasp. "_Ryan please get up," _Mike pleaded, tears in his eyes at seeing the man who he had respected for so long so broken down. Ryan shook his head quickly and brought the cloth to his chest, clutching it tightly in his hands. Mike felt tears in his eyes, and turned to the other people in the police station, "I can't get him up. He's locked himself down from us. We'll all have to pick him up and move him to an interrogation room. Temporarily." He glanced down at Ryan, and sighed. _"I believe I may be of service," _a cool voice slurred.

Mike whipped around, stood up, and raised his gun, glaring, "_Joe," _he spat the name as he acknowledged the man leaning on a doorway that led to the holding cells of the police station, smirking at him, completely at ease in a police jacket, black pants, boots, a cap with the word "POLICE" embroidered just above the bill, and dark sunglasses that covered much of his face. Mike narrowed his eyes. How dare Joe, who had most likely reduced Ryan to this state, just stand there while Ryan was clearly tormented by his own mind?! Mike narrowed his eyes at the man, "Walk forward, you bastard! Show us your hands!" Joe chuckled, taking off a police cap he'd put on and taking off the black sunglasses that had formed a part of his disguise and tossing them into a trash can nearby, taking a deep sip of some coffee from the cup in his hand before turning to Mike, a cool smile on his face, "Don't worry, Agent Weston. . . I have no intention of harming anyone here . . . not now, anyway. . ." he turned his head, took another sip of the coffee, and threw the rest of it into the trash can as well, before turning to Mike and with laughing eyes, raised his hands, stepping forward, "To be honest, I was beginning to seriously wonder when Ryan would get here. From the moment he came in, I was wondering when you would realize that you couldn't help him up. . . It was quite disappointing that it took you both so long to fulfill your tasks. . . I went through three cups of coffee, and let's be honest," he smirked at Mike, who fumed at him, his eyes glowering into Joe's own, "That coffee tastes of mud. . ." Mike glared at him, fury rising within him at Joe's obvious arrogance, and clicked off the safety of the gun, "Why did you come?! Because if it was to get your brains blown out, I'll be glad to oblige!"

Joe frowned, and tilted his head to the side, "Actually, I came here to help you with Ryan. You see, Ryan left right in the middle of a major lesson, and as any professor would, I want to finish teaching it to him. . ." he smiled calmly and contently at Mike, as if there wasn't a gun pointed at his head. It was that calm and coolness that pushed Mike over the edge, "YOU WON'T EVEN TOUCH HIM, YOU HEAR ME?! YOU'VE ALREADY DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE TO HIM!" Joe frowned, "_But I can answer your questions, Michael. To begin with, I can tell you whose blood that is on Ryan's shirt. You wanted to know that, didn't you?" _Mike stared at him, blinking. Joe took the agent's silence as an allowance for him to continue, and moved his hand to his pocket. Mike tensed, and held up his gun even more, "SHOW ME YOUR HAND! TAKE IT OUT OF YOUR POCKET!" Joe chuckled, "Very well, Agent Weston." He pulled out a stack of papers. Mike frowned a little, as Joe continued, "That's Claire's blood on Ryan's shirt," he pointed at Ryan's shirt with that same hand, sticking out his pointer finger to do so. Mike stared. Joe smiled at the agent's silent shock and continued, "Ryan killed her himself. Tortured her really, I have these pictures to prove it . . ." he handed the pictures to a police officer near him and the agent took them to Weston.

Mike couldn't believe what he saw in the pictures. Ryan was in fact straddling and kneeling down towards Claire who was strapped down on a table in a dimly lit room, the woman screaming in agony as a long, jagged knife sliced into her. Other shallow cuts dotted her torso, and this one clearly wasn't going to be as deep as would be needed to kill her. Mike turned, and stared at Ryan in shock, mouth open. Ryan continued to mumble, eyes shut tight, tears streaming down his cheeks. Joe smiled calmly, leaning forward a little, both of his hands still up in the air; seeming to mock the FBI agent despite doing just what he had ordered Joe to do, "Believe me, Agent Weston?" Mike turned, staring at the serial killer in horror, "Wh-what did you do to him?" Joe smiled and reaching into the middle opening of his coat, pulled out a heavy black 5 inch binder slowly from beneath the coat's material, "I would love to tell you, Agent Weston. But I may need Ryan's help for that . . . Ryan?" he turned his head to focus more on the man in the corner raised his voice a little at the mentioning of Ryan's name. Ryan froze immediately. Joe turned his head and smiled at Mike before walking up and handing the agent the heavy notebook, "I'll get him up, don't worry." He moved past Mike as Mike stared, dumbstruck, at the man who seemed to saunter the rest of the way towards Ryan to stand over Ryan, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, and knelt down.

Joe gazed at Ryan for a few moments, before he moved his hand, smiled, and took Ryan's chin in his finger tips and turned Ryan's face to him. He smirked all the more as he saw Ryan's scatter brained, shifty blue eyes focus on him. Ryan's lips trembled, and a mix between relief and pain filled his stormy eyes. _"J-Joe?" _he whispered hoarsely, as if worried that Joe wasn't really there, as if his own damaged mind was perhaps showing him a hallucination. Joe smiled calmly, and reaching up, ran his hand over Ryan's hair, stroking him as one would a pet, reassuring Ryan of his presence, "Hello, Ryan. How are you feeling today?" Ryan shivered, tears streaming down, "_Awful. . . It . . . it won't come off. . ." _he whispered hoarsely, and shook his hands harder together, wrenching the cloth around in them. Joe smiled calmly and rested the hand he'd had in Ryan's hair on top of the blue eyed man's hands, steadying them, "I know, I know. But you have even more blood on your shirt Ryan . . . you need a new one. . ." Ryan shivered a little at that, and as Joe moved his hands away from Ryan's chin and hands, the trembling man looked down. And shook all the harder as he took in all of the blood on his shirt, _"Every . . . everywhere. ._ ."

"That's _right_, Ryan. Now, I brought a new shirt for you, see?" Joe murmured again, and pulled out a white shirt from beneath his coat, smiling that same cool, collected smile at the man. Ryan blinked at him blankly, and Joe smiled, "Let's get you undressed and into it, then we'll go into another room and talk to the kind agent, okay?" Ryan darted his eyes down, _"Y-yes sir. . ."_ Joe slid the cloth from Ryan's fingers, and Mike stared as Ryan unbuttoned his bloody shirt and wrenched it off, tossing it to the ground. That shirt was soon followed by the black wife beater that Ryan had worn beneath it. Once Ryan was finished undressing from both garments of clothing, Joe helped him into the new, white, dressing him up as if this was a normal, everyday occurrence. Once they'd buttoned up Ryan's new shirt, Joe smiled, and patted Ryan's cheek and Ryan shivered and shook, gazing at Joe's dark eyes. It was clear to all present that the former FBI agent was completely dependent on the killer for guidance. And it made Mike's blood run cold.

Joe reached out and ruffled Ryan's hair, resting his hand on the former agent's head, stroking the man's scalp. Ryan, rather than pull away, sighed and relaxed a under the man's touch. Joe gazed at him with a smile on his face before the dark eyed man turned to Mike, smiling calmly at the agent, "Agent Weston, which interrogation room would you like me to take Ryan to?" Mike gritted his teeth. He was torn between the urge to pull Ryan away from Joe, and the urge to get Ryan to safety. To a room. . . And it was clear to him that in order to do the latter, he needed Joe to get Ryan up off the floor and to a room. As much as he hated to admit it, Ryan would listen to Joe more than anyone else, for whatever reason. Mike wasn't sure if he would want to hear that reason, but knew that he needed to hear it, to be able to help Ryan later. "The only one here," he whispered, pointing at another hallway that led back to the quiet interrogation room. Joe smiled and nodded. Turning to Ryan, the dark eyed man tilted the other man's head up, so that Ryan locked tired blue eyes on Joe's own eyes, the other man ready listen to Joe and do as he said. Joe smiled and stroked the skin of Ryan's chin and the agent blinked at him, waiting for an order. "We're going to get up and move now, okay, Ryan?" Joe remarked calmly. Ryan blinked and nodded, whispering hoarsely a quick "_Yes sir_" before letting Joe move to kneel at his side and slide an arm under Ryan's armpits. With the other arm, he took up Ryan's inside hand, Ryan's right one, into his own right hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, "Ok, come on, Ryan. . . let's go." Ryan gave a shuddering sigh and nodded, his eyes falling to focus on the floor, and let himself be guided to stand before Joe turned his head and after nodding at Weston followed Mike to an interrogation room calmly with Ryan following silently and obediently along.

In a matter of minutes, Ryan was sitting with his back slumped against the back of a chair, his eyes on the floor and his fingers interlaced and lying in his lap, while Joe sat erect in his own chair, his arms folded before him and smiling calmly at the agent. Mike sighed a little in his sadness regarding the situation and sat down, "Ok, Ryan, I need you to. . ." he frowned. Upon hearing Mike's voice, Ryan had started mumbling under his breath again, leaning forward more, crouching down over his arms, eyes shut tight, breathing harder. Before Mike could start to worry if Ryan was going to have a panic attack, Joe jerked his head over and frowned at Ryan, "Ryan, quiet now. Pay attention," Joe remarked sternly, his dark eyes narrowing a bit. Ryan fell silent, sitting there as still as a statue but still breathing hard. Joe frowned, and straightened a little in his own seat, "Sit back in your chair straight. Don't slump forward." Ryan followed the command immediately, eyes on Joe's hands that still rested on the table, gulping a little, tears flowing slowly down his cheeks. The immediacy with which Ryan obeyed Joe's orders unsettled Mike. It was as if Ryan were some dog following his Master's commands. . . It chilled him to think that all Ryan might have known to obey for a year had been Joe's voice.

Joe turned to Mike, breaking through his thoughts as he smiled calmly and addressed Mike, "Please accept my deepest apologies, Agent Weston. Ryan's actions are quite unacceptable, but I'm afraid I may be to blame. You see, Ryan's become a bit spoiled and lax in his time away from you and your people. Haven't you, _Ryan_?" he asked the other man the last question. Ryan shivered a bit but nodded, _"Y-Yes sir."_ Mike gazed worriedly at him. Joe smiled and turned to the agent as if nothing was wrong, "Well at least he has good manners in that respect, right?" he chuckled a little.

Mike frowned at Joe. The man was having _far_ too much fun at Ryan's expense in Mike's opinion. But he still needed Joe to get through to Ryan. For now, anyway. "Can you tell him to listen to me, too?" Mike remarked firmly. Joe frowned a bit at the request, as if not wanting to relinquish his control over Ryan to anyone else, then turned to Ryan and reaching over, touched Ryan's chin with his fingertips, muttering in a low voice, _"Look at me, Ryan." _Ryan's eyes darted up immediately to focus on Joe's face, as the former agent held his breath, as if that would block out Joe's words with its noise, and that such a blocking out of Joe's voice would be the worst thing on earth. Joe smiled a bit wider at the submission in Ryan's eyes, the emptiness. He found it beautiful. He stroked Ryan's lips a little, gazing calmly at the man sitting beside him quietly and patiently and hanging on every word Joe had to say. He relished the control he now held over Ryan. And even though that had not been his original plan when he'd taken Ryan a year ago, he did like that it had all ended up this way.

"_I need you to do something for me, Ryan. Not something bad . . . something good. Understand?" _Joe murmured. Ryan's lips trembled a little and his eyes widened a bit in either surprise or worry, but he nodded, "_Wh-what is it, Joe?" _Joe smiled and stroked Ryan's chin, _"Good boy, Ryan, I'm proud of you. I like your willingness. Now, as far as what I want you to do. . . Agent Weston wants to know everything that we've been up to during this past year that you've been with me. Understand?" _Ryan stared, worry evident in his gaze now more than surprise, _"E-Everything?" "Everything," _Joe confirmed in a slur, smiling confidently at the man, _"Now I'll tell you what we're going to do. Between you and me, we'll tell him everything. You start off from the time you went to that warehouse, and just keep going. I'll give you a small tap on the arm when it's my turn to speak . . . then give you another tap when you may start talking again." _He turned to Mike, "Is that alright, Michael?" Mike gritted his teeth. . . "I suppose it's okay. . ." He was without a doubt uneasy about Ryan succumbing so easily to Joe in order to do this . . . but if it got the task done . . . he sighed and pulled out a tape recorder, turned it on, and sat it on the table. Joe smiled, his eyes lighting up in a happiness that sent a feeling of worry through Agent Weston. The agent couldn't help but feel as though Joe had planned this. And wondered what Joe had in store through this for him and Ryan. Joe revealed his white teeth as his smile broadened, sensing Mike's uneasiness, "Marvelous."

Joe turned to Ryan, _"Now, let's begin . . . turn to Agent Weston, introduce yourself, and begin." _Ryan nodded, licking his lips, gulping, and turned to Mike, Joe's hand on his chin falling away to pat his shoulder and rub it firmly, urging Ryan to begin. _"H-hello, Agent Weston. . ." _Ryan whispered, and his blue eyes flitted about the room, focused on the table, and then moved up to Mike's face slowly. Mike smiled a sad, pitying smile at him as he gazed into those tormented, stormy blue eyes, _"Hi Ryan. . ." _he leaned forward, smiling a bit more at him. Trying to ignore the fact that Joe was sitting right there, his hand on Ryan's shoulder. He fought the urge to wrench Ryan away from Joe. But he knew that at this point, that'd do more harm to Ryan than darted his eyes down to his lap, slumping in his chair a little more in his obvious nervousness, and twiddled his fingers, _"I. . . I. . ." _He looked up to Weston with shaky eyes, _"I'm . . . y-you k-k-know. . ." "Out with it Ryan," _Joe muttered darkly, testily, gripping Ryan's shoulder harder, his fingernails digging into Ryan's shirt. The former agent winced a little, as Joe continued, snarling at the man, _"Have I taught you NOTHING of being upfront with your emotions and thoughts?!" _Ryan ducked his head, whimpering, eyes shut tight as if Joe's rebuke hit him like a punch to the face. Mike frowned at Joe, "_Joe, I won't let you treat Ryan that way." "N-no . . ." _Ryan whimpered, shaking his head, eyes closed, _"No . . . no . . . no. . . I'm sorry," _Ryan whispered, then lifted his head up and gazing with tears in his eyes at Joe, begging the man for forgiveness both verbally and nonverbally, "_I'm . . . you're right. . . I'm sorry." _"It's fine . . . as long as you remember to stay on topic this next try," Joe remarked coldly, glaring at Ryan warningly. Ryan gulped at the man and turning, nodded as he faced Mike, and spoke up louder, straightening his back, looking at Mike with his stormy blue eyes, forcing himself to appear as confident as he needed to do to please Joe, "My name is Ryan Hardy, and I'm going to tell you what happened to me. Okay?" Mike smiled weakly, "Begin, please, Ryan." Ryan took a deep breath, and began. . .


	3. As the Thunder Rolls

**_Disclaimer: I do not own the show "The Following", or any of its characters or plot! This is simply me writing a fanfic concerning the show!_**

**Author's Note:** _Well hello, everybody! The fact that you have reached this page either means that somehow you got directed to this page without meaning to or you enjoyed or were interested enough by the prior chapter to read more into this tale of a man facing darkness! If it's the prior, my best wishes to you having whatever issue you're having with your electronic device resolved. If it's the latter, welcome back, reader! I must apologize first off for a typo that had been previously in the author's note in the beginning of this fanfiction. Parts of it have been revised. They can be viewed in bold on that page, or you can just read what you need to know here! This story (especially starting from this point onward) takes place after the episode of "Guilt" in the show "The Following". You know, after Claire leaves to go to where Joe's people are, in the hopes of ending the bloodshed and finding her son? However, it will contain SPOILERS that so far will go through the ending of "The Curse". Now, regarding this chapter specifically:_

_Dear reader, _

_I understand that this chapter is probably coming far later than you would have liked. I adore you and thank you for your patience. And therefore, I have worked hard to make this chapter the very best chapter that I can possibly turn out for your viewing pleasure. Originally, the chapter to be posted next was only 9 or 10 pages. Now, after working on it and meticulously adding in details to please you, that chapter expanded to the point where I felt it necessary for it to be cut in HALF, in which I would give you the first half of the original chapter here, and the second half in the next chapter, which I do hope will be posted very, very soon. Anyway, this chapter, which, technically, which's content was originally just four or five pages long, has turned into 20 pages in Microsoft Word. I truly wanted to present you with a masterpiece full of hard work and tireless, meticulous reading over and over and adding of details and taking away of details to make it just as perfect as I could make, and I think I have succeeded. I truly hope that you feel the same. So please, without any further ado (because I truly believe that all of you have waited far too long already. on that note, I would like to say that I am sorry, but that I wished to turn out a very good quality chapter for all you wonderful people), please enjoy this chapter! I finish this author's note by dedicating this chapter to my fellow fan of "The Following", **Transparent Existance**!_

_Yours,_

_Trikkster_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**As The Thunder Rolls and the Lightning Strikes**

The rain drops fell hard and rapidly against Ryan Hardy's windshield as he drove in his older town car down the deserted streets of Boston. Ryan's broken stereo offered no intermission to the pitter-patters of the water droplets on his car, the sounds of which seemed to merge together in a twisted harmony with the loud beating of his own heart in a sick song, a haunting melody. Ryan gave a rattling sigh as he drove on, the storm that had blown into town causing the streets to become large rivers of water and the air to be full of blinding fog, water, rolling thunder, and strikes of lightning that curved in jagged arches across the dark background of black storm clouds, offering for his evening a gothic environment that would be the only witness for what was about to happen to him. As he came to an intersection, the yellow light flashed off and the red light flashed on, and Hardy put his foot on the brake, waiting as the moments passed by, waiting for the light to turn green. There were no other cars at the intersection, and none coming upon it. The part of town that Ryan was in was deserted. Normally, because of that, he would have just run the light, to get to where he wanted to go as soon as possible. To save time . . . but tonight he could wait. He'd try to do anything he could to make sure that he got to his destination just in time and no earlier. Ryan couldn't help but wonder how many hours of his life he'd spent at traffic lights. How many precious hours had he spent like this? When he could have been enjoying life, living it to the fullest? Now he wished that he had spent that time doing just that. He supposed that most people when facing such a realization would decide to do that for the rest of their lives, living it to the fullest. But for Ryan, that was no longer an option. So, instead of bringing the hope of better days to come, that realization brought despair, a true evaluation of his truly hopeless situation. It left Ryan feeling hollow and empty.

As Hardy watched the red light blink back at him in what he perceived to be a taunting manor, as if it knew the dark fate lying before the tortured soul sitting with his hands clasping his steering wheel, he sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head against the head rest. He heard his phone vibrating against the worn leather of his back seat. It'd been ringing on and off for the past three hours. It was probably Parker, or someone else with the FBI, looking for him. Unable to find him because of the fact that he'd easily disabled the GPS tracking device on his phone. No one could know where he was. And he couldn't answer his phone. It was too risky. He couldn't risk anyone interfering with what he had to do now, no matter how much a part of him wanted them to. He was a torn man, torn between the side of him that knew what had to be done and the side of him that wanted nothing more but to get out of his situation and run from his troubles to hide beneath his bed like the child he'd long since left behind as he'd matured into the man he was today.

As the phone continued to vibrate, Ryan fought the urge to pick it up. He fought the urge to answer it, to talk to the person on the other line, to get out of his predicament, rather than go through with what he had set to do before him. When the urge became so great that he almost did answer it, he knew he had to get rid of the phone, or risk answering it and backing out of the tasks required of him later. Turning around, he reached back, gripped his thin black cell phone, and turning, rolled down his window, letting various rain drops pour into his car and onto his clothes. He was going to drop his phone into the blinding rain, to let it smash into the pavement to be crushed beneath the wheels of cars and vehicles, to let it be ruined by the rain pouring down around him. He gave a shuddering sigh as he paused, and for the first time that night, Ryan looked at the caller ID. . . _Deborah Parker _. . . he closed his eyes, and pressed "Answer". He wasn't sure exactly why he felt the need to talk to her. But he knew that he had to apologize verbally to someone, to anyone, for what he was about to go through with. He put it on speaker immediately, and heard her frantic voice wailing on the other end of the line, "_RYAN! RYAN WHERE ARE YOU?! What are you doing?!" "I'm sorry,"_ he whispered, holding the phone up to his lips as he muttered the words, hot tears racing down his cheeks, so that she could hear him over the storm. _"WHAT?! WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR?! WHERE ARE YOU?!" _she gasped, and he could hear the sheer panic in her voice. It broke his heart to hear her so scared, and about him. _I've caused so many people so much pain. Why was I cursed to be this way? What did I ever do to deserve this fate?_

Ryan gave a shuddering breath, and ended the phone call. Immediately the phone started vibrating again, as she tried to call him back, no doubt wanting to gain a location on him by triangulating the call, or to at least talk him out of whatever he was going to do. He couldn't let her do either, no matter how much he wanted her to. Sighing, he moved his hand with the phone outside of his car window, feeling the rain battering that arm. He wore just a black button down shirt, and black pants, and knew that the material of the shirt was probably ruined at that point by the rain. For a moment, he thought of keeping the phone, of trying to call her back. In the next moment, his fingers released their grip on the device. He let go of the phone, and watched as the traffic light turned green. He didn't hear the phone break, although he knew it would. Pressing the gas pedal, he sprang his car into life, and rolled his window back up as he drove onward, his eyes searching for his destination.

Finally, after roughly 15 minutes of driving, Ryan found it. It was an old abandoned book factory. It was one that had been abandoned years before Ryan had even become an agent. Black and red and green and blue graffiti was smeared over the brick walls of the factory in a form of grotesque modern art, twisting and turning and bulging in words and symbols that he didn't even care to try to decipher, and most of the building's windows were either boarded up or shattered. The deep dark structure stood tall and dark in the storm like a great dark figure standing tall in the torrent and darkness, as if it'd been waiting for Ryan like a dark beacon. Ryan pulled down a side street beside the factory, and then pulled into the deserted, cracked, and overgrown parking lot that had once housed the cars of the factory workers. Now it only held weeds and bugs. After circling around the parking lot, making sure that there was no one else parked there, he parked in the dead center of the lot and flopped back against his head rest and the back of the seat, his hands sliding down the steering wheel to meet at the bottom arch of it as he gazed through the rain at the rugged structure before him. Trying to imagine the people who might be in there, ready to attack him. Since Joe Carroll's release from prison, he'd gotten so paranoid, he felt like he couldn't trust hardly anyone anymore except for Mike, Parker, and Tyson.

At one point he'd thought he could fully trust Claire, but that belief had been shattered when she'd run off, leaving Tyson who was dying to try to stop the bleeding on his own and betraying Ryan's trust by leaving when she'd said she wouldn't. He felt that he shouldn't be mad at her, and yet the sting of betrayal still gave birth to a deep dark anger inside of him. The woman wanted to find her son. He could understand that, and couldn't deny that as a reason for her actions. Still, if she hadn't have done that, he wouldn't be in this current situation . . . he couldn't deny that either.

He glanced nervously at the white long thin gift box sitting in the seat next to him, tied up with a beautiful silky black ribbon. He glanced at the black envelope beneath it. Both had appeared just on his stoop that morning outside of his apartment . . . The fact that they'd appeared there had sent him two messages right from the start: Joe had someone following him, and if Ryan "misbehaved" as Joe's hero, Joe knew where to find him, would know that he had misbehaved, and could do anything to him, his fellow agents, his neighbor Molly, or Claire and Joey in revenge. Hell, Joe might just murder someone off the street in retribution. Therefore, since it was clear that he was meant to read the letter in the envelope, he'd taken it inside his apartment, sat down, and opened it. He'd been leaving the apartment to go to the FBI headquarters nearby and had in fact been running late, but he'd figured that he best do what Joe wanted for two reasons. First off, he'd figured that reading one simple note wouldn't hurt him any more than he was already hurt. And secondly, if he took the letter to Parker and the FBI afterwards after going over the note's contents in his mind beforehand and brainstorming about what their next move should be, they could be ahead in Joe's sick, twisted game before Ryan even reached headquarters. He'd been wrong on both accounts: the note was far more powerful than he'd thought it would be, and he couldn't dare to show it to Parker or the FBI.

So Ryan'd stayed at home, calling in sick with Parker, and when she commented that she could come over to check on him, he'd remarked that he feared it may be contagious, and since he didn't want her to catch whatever he had, he wouldn't let her in the apartment. She'd persisted to ask him what he thought the illness was, and he'd complained about her being too nosy, and had slammed the cell phone closed and had tossed it on the bed. He knew he'd been rude, but he'd needed some alone time to go over what the note had said. So for the rest of the day he'd remained in solitude, locking the door to his apartment and putting a chair up against it to ensure that it couldn't be opened easily from the outside, reading over the note over and over again, debating what his next move would be. He knew that he must have looked over it a million times. And now, he'd read it once more. So he took up the thick envelope and slid the thick parchment paper out and unfolded it carefully, blinking at the black calligraphy style words on the page. He could tell that Joe had actually written it himself, and he had to admit, it must have taken even Carroll a good deal of time to write it. In a sick sort of way, Ryan was flattered that the man had taken the time. The note read:

**"Ryan,**

**I do hope that this note finds you well and healthy. If not, well, then I am truly sorry. To be honest, I myself am not feeling so well. In fact, sleep has eluded me greatly due to the fact that our last conversation has haunted me quite a bit.**

**You see, I meant what I said when I said that you are not quite the man I need you to be by the end of our collaborative tale. And to have you just drop out of it, to quit being the hero of my story, well now, that just would not do. And so, I simply cannot allow that. You see, I cannot just scrap the story now just because you feel it has become too much for you! And it would be greatly selfish of you to do so, in my opinion. After all, I have worked so hard to set such a wonderful story up for you. So, the show must go on, so to speak. After all, the real fun hasn't even started yet, I can assure you of that! But more on that later.**

**Either way, I simply cannot choose another hero, I cannot scrap this wonderful novel, and it must have an ending. So I'm afraid that you cannot simply quit, my dear man. Now, I assume that you would still choose to be stubborn if I merely end this letter with that. Because of this assumption I have created in my mind, I have wracked my brain with ways to make you stay, to finish your inevitable transformation into the heroic man I need you to be. And I do believe I have found a way. It has been a long, and complex process, but then again, manipulating one's own characters is always such a complex process for any author, and using real characters only makes it harder, you see. . . and especially when those characters are as strong willed and, quite frankly, stubborn, as you. But no matter, you are worth any complex reasoning you require, my dear man. After all, your mind is such a MASTERPIECE to be able to manipulate, it would be an enticing challenge for any author worry of his pen! But sadly, I do believe even you wouldn't understand the complex plan I have come up with, so I'll just keep things simple. . ."**

Ryan blinked, having reached the end of the parchment paper on that side, and flipped it over, reading the back:

**"As you well know, I now have not just my son Joey, but my wife Claire as well. And now, I plan to harm them greatly. Now, before you start to panic and trouble that poor, fragile little heart of yours, let me continue: I know how fond you are of Claire and by default Joey, so I'm going to offer you a deal. A way to save them from my cruelty, in other words. If you come alone to the address inscribed in the return address section of the envelope this came in, and put on what is in the box this envelope came with, and stand outside of your car alone at precisely 9:00 PM this evening, and comply and come quietly with my men when they come for you, I shall spare Claire and Joey such an awful experience of torture, agony, and slaughter. I must warn you, however. From the moment you put on what is in the box, if you misbehave greatly towards me or my followers just ONCE after that without my own permission or allowance and in spite of any warning I may give you, Claire and Joey WILL be harmed and inevitably murdered before your very eyes. And I should warn you: if you inform anyone else of this Letter or the Deal I offer, I WILL KNOW, RYAN.**

**At the exact moment of your selfish utterance of the words of this letter, the deal I have so GRACIOUSLY offered you will be nullified and I shall videotape myself murdering Claire and Joey and send it to the FBI for your viewing pleasure. Hope to see you soon,**

**Joe C."**

Ryan's mind had run cold with the words Joe had written. Turning to the envelope, he pulled out the one thick piece of material that remained. It was a picture taken by a digital camera and printed off in a drug store. He turned it over, and gazed at a picture taken of Claire and Joey, with the two of them sitting at a table with two chairs in a room with beige walls, playing a game of giant checkers. And on top of the glossy surface of the picture . . . he gritted his teeth, as he gazed at the red blood stains on it, smeared over both of them in splotches, with deeper red strikes over their faces. He knew what that meant . . . it was an enforcement of Joe's threat.

It was because of the letter and picture that his mind had swam with potential instances of what Joe could possibly do to his wife and child. And it was because of those potential instances that Ryan had come to the only chilling decision he felt he could make: he had to come here to the book factory, just like Joe had instructed him to. He understood that he may be walking right into a trap. In fact, he was absolutely 100% sure he was walking into one. But he also knew he'd do anything to save the lives of Joey and Claire, just as Joe had known when he'd written the letter to Ryan. The thought that Joe knew so much about the inner workings of Ryan's mind chilled Ryan to the bone.

As Ryan sat in his seat, listening to the rain fall outside his window, listening to the thunder roll, and seeing the illumination the lightning that followed caused on the parchment, he also understood that he should have probably told somebody about what had happened and what he had to do. He knew that the FBI might have been able to help him. But he . . . he just couldn't tell the FBI, because he quite frankly didn't know who to trust in the justice system. And quite frankly, any help they could offer wouldn't be faster than a cell phone call from a follower hidden within the justice system to Carroll, and certainly wouldn't be faster than Joe murdering Claire and Joey after receiving that call. So he couldn't tell anyone. He just couldn't!

So, instead of doing what the logical part of his mind that saw the trap he'd be walking into was screaming at him to do, this dreary, rainy night he drove to the warehouse that Joe had asked him to come to, playing right into the sick, psychopathic author's hands.

For minutes that seemed like hours, Ryan sat there gazing out his blurry windshield, watching the rain pouring down in long rivers down the glass surface of that part of his car, watching the sky as thunder rolled and lightning ran across the heavens, stretching across the sky with its jagged skeletal fingers. Ryan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, tears leaking from beneath his eyelids. He couldn't deny being fearful of what he was about to probably go through. In less than one day, he could be mangled, dismembered, probably dead somewhere. What Joe could do to him was limitless. He'd learned that from the many lessons Joe had imposed on him in the past, lessons Ryan honestly had never wanted to take. But despite his acknowledgement of that fear, he knew that he had to get his tears out now and not cry any longer, because he refused to show such weakness in the presence of the psychopath or his sick followers. Therefore he opened his eyes and glanced at the clock in his car, the glowing green numbers revealing it to be 8:30 PM. He had thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until whoever was coming to the warehouse would come for him, most likely to take him away to who knew where . . . he sighed and turned to the bag of food he'd gotten from a local Japanese restaurant that lay in the floor before his passenger side seat: his last meal before his freedom was taken away, before he was handed over to devil incarnate himself, like a lamb led to the slaughter.

He grunted, and slid his seat back by reaching down, jiggling a lever on the bottom of his seat, pulling it up, and sliding back from the steering wheel as he pushed the bottoms of his shoes against the floor of his car, keeping a careful eye on the parking lot, watching for any signs of movement. Pulling the bag into his lap, he began pulling out the boxes and packets of sauce he'd brought. He'd chosen to get noodles and hibachi rice and shrimp and vegetables, trying to build up his strength. After all, he had no idea when he would eat again, if he would ever eat again. As he opened it and broke the chopsticks that had come with the meal, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He didn't often believe in God, much less talk to him, but if he had ever needed him, he needed him now. _If there is a God out there, please help me with the trials ahead. I hope not to see you too soon, Amen._

He opened his eyes, and fighting back the tears that threatened to continue to leak out of his eyes at the aspect of what lay ahead, Ryan began to eat slowly, savoring each taste as best as he could, ignoring the amount of salt in his food, forcing his trembling hands to remain steady enough for him to get the food to his mouth. . . as he ate the food, he remembered how he'd spent one night on his sister Jenny's 21st birthday in a Japanese restaurant constantly at the bar, laughing and joking, drinking sake bombs until the restaurant closed down, and tossing shrimp and steak and chicken they'd gotten hibachi style at one another as they also ate sushi and noodles and rice and vegetables, trying to catch the flying bits of meat with their open mouths, and laughing their heads off when they failed. Ryan gulped down some rice as he thought of that happy time. Then he remembered when Jenny had been captured by Maggie Kester. And his throat constricted around the food that was in it, as guilt flowed over him . . . he'd caused so much pain . . . to so many people, everywhere he went. And his family had become in many ways the primary victims of such a curse.

He turned, gripped a bottle of scotch in the floor in front of the passenger seat in a plastic bag from the local liquor store, and pulling it up before him as tears blurred his vision, he opened it, and tossed his head back, gulping the alcohol down thirstily to help the food go down his throat._ Given that, maybe this isn't so bad after all. After all, in this way, I'm helping those I care about, right? I'm making sure everyone's safe . . . _Pulling the bottle away, he breathed hard, gazing at it with teary eyes, his gasps coming out through shuddering lips. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that, to chase away his fear for at least a moment, it never worked . . . And deep down, he knew it never would. With a sigh, Ryan turned to his food and continued, setting the scotch down carefully on the console between his seat and the passenger seat. Still, he had to do what the note said, even if it meant only sparing Claire and Joey temporarily. _Even if it meant doing just what Joe Carroll wanted. . . _

Just what Joe Carroll wanted, just what Joe Carroll wanted . . . for the past few months, it seemed that that was all that Ryan had been doing: just what Joe Carroll wanted. Ryan wouldn't be the first to deny that his life had in many ways gone to hell since putting Carroll away the first time. But still, even having the sad sorry life of the alcoholic was better than having his life manipulated and dictated by a psychopathic serial killer out for revenge. After all, the prior was HIS LIFE. Even if it had been a sad sorry life, it had been the one that _Ryan_ had created for himself. Not one dictated to him and laid before him in a planned format by Joe Carroll. Ever since Joe Carroll had escaped from prison, Ryan had felt like a helpless puppet being controlled by a sick, gruesome, gothic monster of a puppeteer, even when Joe had been returned to prison. For that, he hated Joe. He hated Joe for focusing on manipulating his own life. He hated it more than anything in the world. And yet, Joe knew him so well, and used that knowledge he had to manipulate Ryan in such a way, that Ryan was allowing himself and his life to be manipulated once more. He was allowing the puppeteer to take up his strings once more, to bend him and turn him in ways that would fit into Joe's sick masterpiece of blood and despair. That thought made his stomach churn, and made him fight to keep his food down.

Once the food was all gone and his stomach strained against his shirt and pants, Ryan tossed the box haphazardly into the back seat and glanced at the clock: 8:50 PM. He sighed deeply, a long, rattling sigh, and turning, picked up the other things he'd brought with him along with Joe's things and his own last supper: a pad of paper and a pen . . . having picked those up, he set about writing a note, praying that whoever was coming for him would not take his car and would instead leave it here. . . Laying the pad against his thigh, he began to scrawl on it trying his hardest to keep his handwriting as much unlike Joe's as possible, in a silent rebellion against the man attempting to control his life. A final act of defiance before he surrendered over to the man and his followers in complete and total submission. Once he was done, he held it up to read as lightning raced across the sky outside once more:

"**Deborah and Mike,**

** I'm truly sorry for what I'm about to do. But I feel like if I don't do it, Claire, and Joey, and a lot of other people may very well die because of my lack of action. I've got to let them take me to Joe. I know it's hard to understand, but I honestly can't tell you more than that, for fear that Joe may find out. I honestly have no idea who to trust anymore in the FBI, except for you two.**

**I don't want to do this. I hope that at some point I may be able to break free and help you both stop him, but I probably won't be able to. Hell, I don't even know if I'll be alive in 24 hours. Either way, just know that I know that you can do it. That you can find him and his band of followers, and that you can stop him. You two are very smart. **

**Deborah, you know more about cults than anyone else I've ever met. If anyone can figure out this whole mess, you can. **

**Mike, you have to be one the smartest agents I've ever met, considering your age. I truly am sorry for the trouble you've already been put through at the hands of Roderick and Joe's men. Even as I write, you still haven't regained consciousness. I want you to know that I think you will go far, and when I think back on you, no matter how much longer I have to be able to do so, it will always be with fondness. You were the best agent and partner a guy can have, and you truly embody the three things that the FBI stands for: fidelity, bravery, and integrity. You will go far. **

**Just remember this, both of you. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to play Joe's game like this. But this has to be done. And in the hopes of preventing more deaths, I can honestly say that I regret nothing. Please push forward, and live your lives to the fullest. Time is too short to do otherwise, trust me. I was truly blessed to know you, and am glad that you were both a part of my life, and I a part of yours. I will never forget you, no matter what may happen.**

**Sincerely, **

**Ryan Hardy**

**P.S. Please tell my sister, Jenny Hardy, and my friend Tyson when he comes around, that I will forever remember and care for them and love them. I will forever cherish them and the things they have done for me and their memories. I hope they go on to live healthy, fulfilling, long lives. And I hope that they will remember me fondly, as I was, and not as what I turned into."**

Ryan felt tears racing down his cheeks. He was happy with the note. He'd been going over what he wanted to say in it all day. And yet, he hung his head, closing his eyes. He hated to think that all they may have left of him, the last thing they would have of his words, of his thoughts, of his mind, would be this note. It felt as though, even though that was the best he could manage to leave them with, that was still not enough for them. Not _nearly_ enough. And Ryan already felt like he'd let them all down so much already, that the thought of letting them down once more made his heart ache.

He sighed and opened his eyes, gazing at the message pad, and pulled off the two sheets that had his letter on them, putting the pad in the floorboard along with his pen, gazing at the sheets he held in his shaking hand as he read over the words he'd written once more. No matter how much he wanted to give them more, no matter how much he felt that they deserved better, this was the best he could do. . . he therefore folded it up into fours slowly, feeling the paper crease beneath his aged fingers. He did the actions with the reverence akin to the folding of the American Flag. They all deserved at least that much. He sat for another moment, gazing at the note long and hard as it was held up against the background provided by the dashboard and windshield of his car. To be honest, he wasn't even sure if anyone would find the letter, or even if Deborah or Mike would see it. But he had to leave it, if nothing else but for his own peace of mind. And hopefully for theirs. With that thought, he reached down near the bottom edge of his seat, lifted the lever beneath his seat, and slid the seat up to its regular position before reaching over and opening the glove compartment of his car, the small bulb flickering to life inside the containment device. Sucking in a deep breath as if he was putting a part of his soul into the compartment, he slid the folded up note pad sheets into the compartment and slapped it closed, before moving back to flop against his seat, his hands limply in his lap. And his eyes darted to the clock before filling with dread.

8:56 PM. Four more minutes . . . turning, he gripped the bottle of scotch once more. It was a bottle full of courage that he desperately needed to face the trials set before him. He closed his eyes and tipped it back, pressing the opening of the bottle against his lips, gulping thirstily down the rest of the liquid within, feeling the burn of the fluid down his throat, and reveling in it. It brought his emotional turmoil and pain that he felt regarding what he was doing to a physical level. And he enjoyed it. It felt right. Appropriate. Once it was gone with the last of the alcoholic beverage, he lowered the bottle, wiped his face off, and turned to the white box. And glanced at the clock . . . 8:59 PM . . . The stage was set for the gothic performance that Joe Carroll had in mind. It was time for Ryan Hardy to take that stage, no matter how much he didn't want to. He closed the bottle and tossed it into the back seat before he sighed deeply, decided to keep the key in the ignition of his car and the motor still running on more than three quarters of a tank of gas, grabbed the box, and turning, pushed open his door before stepping out into the driving rain, keeping his headlights on at their full power. Hopefully someone would notice his car if he did that, despite the fact that this side of town seemed to be a ghost town this evening. He closed the door and stood there for a moment, gazing around the lot, unable to see much of anything due to the rain. But he was pretty sure no one was there . . . not yet anyway. He turned to the box. On the back of the picture Joe'd sent, had been a note saying that Ryan was not to open the box until now. It'd been hastily written by the serial killer, but he knew he was to obey it just as much as he was to obey the ornately written letter, so with shaking hands, Ryan for the first time took off the ribbon of the box, watching as the dampening ribbon hissed out of its beautiful bow, and dropped the ribbon to the drenched cement below, to get soaked further by the rain. To wilt. To lose its luster. He opened the box and let the lid fall as well to the ground. Knowing it'd probably be soggy and just a white mass of wet cardboard by the time it was found. He sucked in a deep breath as he gazed at the object within the box, forgetting the ribbon and the lid immediately. For within the box was a wide black blindfold.

He sucked in a deep breath and let the box fall as he took the blindfold into his hands as it slowly got soaked by the rain pouring down, gazing down at it with sad eyes, tears racing down his cheeks as his hair got plastered to his head as his wet clothes lay flat against his frame. Lightning flashed, illuminating the entire parking lot, and the loud clap of thunder that came with it seemed to send a tremor through his soul. By putting on the blindfold, he'd be completely vulnerable to Joe and his men. He didn't like this. Not at all. With the loss of his sight may very well come the loss of any chance of freedom he still had . . . He knew that Joe knew that that would go through his mind. . .Because of that, he didn't want to give into the serial killer's sick game any further. He just wanted to get in his car and tear out of that parking lot, to go straight to the FBI and hand over the letter and the remains of the box . . . But if he wanted to keep Claire and Joey safe, he knew he'd have to do it . . . he'd have to put it on, giving up the empty dream of getting out of this sick game that Joe had spent so many years creating. He could only hope that Joe would be true to his word in the end. He gave a deep rattling sigh once more, and slowly, tied the blindfold tightly around his head. Sending his world into darkness.

For over an hour, Ryan stood in the driving rain, feeling it soak through his clothes and make his body cold. He shuddered as he stood there outside his car, counting each second as it ticked by. Where were they?! Was Carroll testing him? To see if he'd grasp the chance for freedom and leave? Was this all just a diversion, an elaborate diversion to keep Ryan from somewhere he needed to be? In that case, was anyone coming for him at all? He felt his body go ice cold, this time not just because of the storm he was standing in, and shivered as a cool wind ran against him before jumping as lightning struck and thunder rolled across the heavens once more. That was the thirty fifth time that had happened. And each time, he'd jumped. He felt so stupid, so _pathetic_, out in the cold in the middle of the storm . . . he sighed. _"I'm through playing your game, Joe . . . I'm going home," _he muttered, reaching up to untie the blindfold, ready to go. He'd be lucky if he didn't get a cold, or even worse, pneumonia, from standing out here like a damn fool . . . suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching, and he gritted his teeth, dropping his arms before his hands even touched the fabric of the blindfold's knot, saying as loudly as he could through his chattering teeth "Wh-wh-wh-who's there?!"

The footsteps paused for a moment, as if the walker was considering something, and then continued as if the walker had decided to continue onward. He gritted his teeth, and turned his head towards where he believed the shadow walker to be . . . it was then that he felt the presence of other bodies around him, their footsteps having been drowned out by the storm and his own tunnel hearing as he'd focused on the pair of footsteps that he'd heard first. One pair of hands shoved him from his car, and he stumbled a little, reaching out and grabbing an arm that was covered by what felt like five layers of clothing, to keep the wearer warm despite the storm. _"Who's there?!"_ he whispered worriedly, gripping that arm and using it to steady himself and to stand upright, mustering as much confidence as he could within himself. A hard hand, the hand of the arm he'd held onto, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him closer to the man with a harsh force, and he heard an icy cold voice hiss in his ear, _"My name is Roderick, Ryan Hardy. And I would suggest that you be quiet, be a good little captive, and do as we say."_

Ryan gritted his teeth, feeling the people around him close in on him more as Roderick held him there, the man's fingers biting into him through Ryan's shirt. He felt Roderick's breath, which had a slight hint of alcohol upon it, on his face, felt the tensing bodies around him, ready to attack should he act out against them. He hung his head a little, licking his lips nervously, trying his best to act submissive. He'd been waiting for something to happen . . . anticipating it . . . and now it had happened. And he knew that if he wanted to remain safe himself and to keep others safe, he had to do as he was told . . . no matter how much he didn't want to. Suddenly, the full weight of responsibility fell against his shoulders. It was enough to bring most men to their knees. But Ryan forced himself to stand strong, to do what he needed to do to ensure the safety of others, refusing to let others die because of him. "_Y-yes. . . I will. . . I will d-d-d-do as you s-s-s-say," _he managed to stutter through chattering teeth. Roderick chuckled and patted his shoulder, hard. Ryan gritted his teeth as the man drawled, "Good. Put your arms behind your back." "Why?" Ryan asked lifting his head up a bit in curiosity, and received a harsh slap across the face in return, as his arms were grabbed by someone behind him, twisted painfully, and wrenched back behind his back as he cried out. A harsh hand clamped over his mouth, and he breathed hard against it. He hadn't meant to make noise, but as he felt harsh hands holding his wrists to the point of bruising, he knew he couldn't have held the cry in even if he'd known what was about to happen.

He jumped a little as the cold bite of steel handcuffs closed over his wrists. _Huh . . . that's new . . . usually I'm the one putting them on someone. . ._ Before he could even try to muster a mental chuckle at that thought, Roderick leaned forward, clenching his hold so that he held Ryan's jaws even tighter in his grip, and hissed into his face, _"The first thing you need to learn is to do as you're told. That means no speaking, unless we tell you too! Got it?!"_ he wrenched his hand harshly away, and breathed hard in Ryan's face as he fumed before him. Ryan shuddered as the rain poured down, as the group waited for his response, flexing his wrists a little behind him, trying to assess what all was happening. He didn't have much time to do so, however. _"Answer me, dammit!" _Roderick snarled, impatient, and slapped him harshly across the mouth, splitting Ryan's lip open. Ryan only grunted this time, as the bones in his neck cracked as his head was flung to the side.

As he had his head turned to the side, Ryan licked his lips nervously, tasting his coppery blood, and nodded, _"Y-yes sir. . . Yes sir, I understand." _With that he held his breath, waiting for Roderick's next move. It was clear this guy was itching to draw blood, to strike out. And quite frankly, although he had no idea why, Ryan didn't want to even ask a question about that for fear that it may provoke the man even further, as two other followers gripped each of his arms in bruising grips, holding onto him firmly as if he would turn and run at any second. If it had been any other situation, he would have scoffed. After all, how far did they honestly think he'd get? Blindfolded and handcuffed in the middle of a storm? Roderick's silence set him on edge a little, and he shuddered, as Roderick just stood before him. After debating it over in his mind for a short while, Ryan chose to continue to speak, _"I. . . I don't want any more trouble. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."_ He felt Roderick's hand on his chin, turning Ryan's head around to face the man once again, and held his breath, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He hated being this vulnerable, not able to even see the man before him, only able to pray that he didn't make him angrier. He didn't want to get hit any more. He only wanted to help Claire and Joey . . . and to hopefully get out of the storm before he got _really_ sick.

He sniffled a little, and Roderick chuckled, _"Good answer, Ryan." _ Ryan gritted his teeth a little, and felt larger handcuffs being snapped around his ankles beneath his pant legs, biting into his flesh there. He shifted his weight nervously from side to side. Now he couldn't even take large steps forward . . . he leaned forward a bit, and moved one foot back a bit into the air, testing the length, moving slowly as to not set off the people around him. He didn't go far before the hand cuffs around his ankles gave him a harsh bite to his skin, as if irritated by his movements. He bit his lip . . . that meant the chain was 6 inches long, maybe 7. . . He heaved a deep sigh, feeling the last hope he had had for his freedom fly from his mind. "Now that you're all wrapped up like a present, let's get going. You have someone _very _important that wants you to be delivered to him. Pronto," Roderick drawled with a laugh, patting him on the cheek before Ryan's arms were grabbed under the arm pits by two strong pairs of hands and he was shuffled to a second spot in the parking lot. No doubt to a spot near their vehicle. . . he heard the door being opened, and the followers worked together, with one clamoring into the vehicle to pull him in and the others lifting his legs up and maneuvering them and pushing them into the vehicle, to get him inside.

Ryan soon sat between those same two followers once he had been placed, quite uncomfortably, in the middle of the back seat of the SUV with his seat belt across his front. Roderick had laughed and said in a mocking tone, "After all, we wouldn't want you to get hurt. SAFETY FIRST AND ALL THAT!" The two followers beside him were definitely male, and had large muscles. No doubt they were militia men, or at least men trained by militia men. Or maybe body builders. Ryan didn't know for sure. Heavy metal music he couldn't identify was blaring in the car as Roderick drove on, the storm still raging on outside but gradually getting drowned out by the music. Ryan heaved a deep sigh, hanging his head forward a little where he sat. He had lost most feeling in his wrists by sitting on them, and the cuffs on his ankles continued to bite into his skin causing small scrapes and cuts and causing a bit of blood to race down into his socks. Not at a dangerous amount, but enough for the wounds to sting a little. He heard the others laughing, probably at some joke one of them had told that he hadn't heard and probably didn't want to hear. He had after a while stopped trying to listen to what they were all saying. He was sure he didn't want to know any of it, and was sure that he couldn't use it to his advantage . . . therefore, all he listened to was the rain against the windows of the car as they rode at breakneck speeds along the road. Taking him closer to Joe Carroll. Closer to the man who may very well be evil incarnate, the ultimate emissary of darkness. His only consolation as he was driven to what would be quite possibly his own personal nine circles of hell was that perhaps what he was doing would save lives. That perhaps his sacrifice would mean something to someone somewhere . . . _please, God who may not even exist . . . please let everyone else be alright . . . _he thought. A clap of thunder was his answer. He could only hope that that was the answer he wanted. After all, he'd never taken the time to learn how to speak thunder. Maybe Joe could teach him how? He'd always been a good teacher, after all . . . given what Ryan had seen so far regarding his followers, Joe still was. . . Ryan let loose a dry chuckle at his inner joke, grateful that the others couldn't hear it. He felt that the least the universe could offer him was that last bit of humor before wheeling him off to his doom.

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**Author's Note: **_So, what do you think? Did you like Ryan Hardy's inner thoughts throughout this chapter? Did you like the way his character was portrayed? Did you like the way that any character was portrayed? Did you dislike the way that any character was portrayed Please leave a review with any thoughts you might have had or any answers to these questions! I can assure you, the next two chapters have already been written down and are ready for proofreading and detail adding, but your reviews do help to encourage me as a writer. It's always good to know that one's work is being appreciated, not just by the number of views one's work gets, but by the remarks people choose to leave concerning that work. So please, write anything that came to mind down in a review, so that I can know what you like. . . or what you dislike, about this literary work! I am not going to lie and say that I am a professional writer. I am still but only an amateur, and I need constructive criticism to improve my skills! _


	4. Velvet Bars

**Hello again every body!**

**I hope you all are having a rather enjoyable season this time of year! Once again, sorry to any of you who got irritated by the wait for this chapter, but believe you me, I tried my hardest to make this one as much worth the wait as the last one, if not more! This chapter is even longer than the last one, and very detailed! To quasificionalist, I took your review to heart and tried to make the setting and emotions felt in this chapter as clear and as easily understood as possible. Thank you so much for your review, it meant a lot to me! And as always, Transparent Existance, thank you so much for your reviews as well! Your reviews can be some of my greatest encouragement to keep posting stories here! Overall, I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much or maybe even more than the ones that came prior to it. As far as owning anything in it go, I only reserve ownership rights to all of the men sent to abduct Ryan except for Roderick. Everyone else, Ryan, Joe Carroll, facts about the plot of the show, all the followers, all the agents from the show, is owned by FOX and "The Following"'s directors! Not by me! ;) So, please, sit back, enjoy, and please review! ~Trikkster**

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**Velvet Bars**

Ryan Hardy had been bound by his restraints for so long that he'd almost lost all of the feeling in his arms. He'd been sitting in the back seat of the car for so long, that he'd almost lost all of the feeling in his legs. And all that he could wonder was when they would arrive at their destination. It wasn't that he was eager to see Joe Carroll. He quite frankly wished he'd never have to see that man's face ever again in his life. But at that moment, as he listened as the car drove on and on, all he wanted was for this infernal ride to end! If felt like Roderick had been driving forever! And now, Ryan just wanted to move, and a part of him didn't care where he was moved to. He grunted and shifted his weight from side to side, squirming a bit in the seat for about the hundredth time, and heard a firm "_Stop it_." from his right.

That was John, or at least, that was what the man was called here. He'd learned that fact about him through conversations the others had had. He'd also learned over the course of the ride that John had a rather tense, angry personality that Ryan _didn't_ want to incite. Furthermore, he'd learned that the man in the passenger seat was rather quiet and was called Cedric. The remaining man in the car, who sat on Ryan's left, was Marcus, and he was rather light hearted. Ryan couldn't figure out if it was just because the follower was stupid or psychotic. He figured it was most likely the second one. Concerning their names, Ryan never assumed that these were any of the men's real names. After all, "Roderick" was the name of a character in "The Fall of the House of Usher" by Edgar Allan Poe, so Ryan automatically figured that that was an alias. And although nothing in particular came to mind regarding the other men's names in relation to Poe, he couldn't dismiss the fact that they probably were using aliases as well, to protect their identities from Ryan. Ryan frowned each time he worked that over in his mind. After all, what could he do, bound up and headed to Joe Carroll? He highly doubted that he'd be able to escape the group of men who currently had him, and doubted that he'd live long enough to escape from wherever they were taking him once they reached their destination. So there was only a slim chance, if any, that he could use any factual information about them to incriminate them later. Ryan figured though that if they wanted to use fake names, he was in no position to argue with any of them anyway. Therefore, he just sighed and flopped back against the back seat of the car and thought about other things. Like how long the ride was taking.

He couldn't even figure out how long or how far they'd ridden in the car. Sometimes over the trip he had wondered if Roderick was just driving around in circles the whole time for either his own amusement or to just throw Ryan off regarding how far they'd driven. But all it was really doing was just causing Ryan to be bored. With the blindfold on, Ryan couldn't so much as look out the window at scenery to pass the time, leaving him with very little to do other than nap and think. A part of Ryan wanted to ask Roderick if they could cut the ride to being a shorter time frame, but Ryan knew that he shouldn't try to ask Roderick if the man was simply wasting time driving around in circles, and even if the man would have answered in the affirmative, Ryan knew that he _certainly_ couldn't focus on negotiating with the man to just stop doing that and go straight to where they were headed. It was clear to Ryan that he was definitely not in control of the situation and would never be in control of the situation, so he didn't try to focus on trying to gain the upper hand. Rather, he chose to just focus on what he _did _know.

What Ryan _did _know was that they had stopped at least 7 times at some forms of establishment during the trip. Four of those times, the first time, third time, fifth time, and seventh time, Roderick and Cedric had gotten out and returned with food for themselves and for John and Marcus. For the third, fifth and seventh times, and the food that they got consisted of the same things: burgers and fries and onion rings. The first time they had gotten sausage biscuits and fried hash browns for the followers' breakfasts. For all seven times that they stopped, Roderick at some point had gotten out, gone to the trunk of the car, let up the door to the trunk, and grabbed a gas can in order to refuel the car. Considering how quickly Roderick refilled the gas tank of the car each time before getting back in the driver's seat, Ryan assumed that all of the cans that were used to do so had been filled up prior to his abduction. He had to admit that that was smart of them. Sooner or later, Mike would be conscious, and able to identify Roderick if needed. Which meant that Roderick needed to stop at a minimal amount of places and be seen by a minimal amount of cameras in order to not drop any hints as far as where Ryan may be. Sure, there was only a slim chance that Mike would look at the particular footage from the cameras at the places they stopped, but there was still a chance nonetheless. Ryan figured that Roderick, or at least Joe, understood that enough to keep the follower's face hidden from as many cameras as possible, hence them not getting gas from any tanks on their way to where Carroll was.

With the burgers and fries and onion rings, Ryan found himself learning more about the men in the car. For one, Marcus always liked to get bacon cheeseburgers. The smoky smell of bacon always met Ryan's nostrils from that man's burger as the man ate it. John on the other hand always got onions on his burgers. Probably extra onions, given the stench coming from his side of Ryan. Ryan tended to lean away from John during the ride because of that. Ryan also knew that Roderick liked a plain burger. Ryan could tell that because no particular smell came from the driver's seat. And Cedric always got onion rings. Ryan knew that because while the smell of onions wasn't so strong coming from Cedric's seat, there was still a light hint of it on the air from that direction. He could also hear the difference in the way Cedric bit into the onion rings and the ways that Roderick and the others ate their fries. It was a small difference, but a difference nonetheless.

Ryan knew that these details were fairly insignificant regarding his situation, but he still focused on them. One reason for that was because he was simply bored with the whole process of getting to their destination, and trying to guess things about the men from the smells and sounds of each man's meal was one way to spend his time. Another reason for it was because he couldn't help but be _fascinated_ by how much powerful his sense of smell had become during the ride. He supposed it was because he was temporarily blinded, thus heightening his other senses, such as touch, taste, sound, and hearing. When he'd first noticed that his senses had been heightened a little, he'd had a false hope that maybe he could learn more during their stops than just what they liked to eat from fast food restaurants. At the very least he had hoped to get some form of information about where they were at that part in the trip from the conversations of passersby walking around outside the vehicle. Sadly however, any information he could gather from outside of the van concerning where they were was greatly diminished, because Roderick seemed to park as far away from the building of wherever they were stopping at as was possible. So, instead of hearing any profitable news about where he was, Ryan's heightened sense of smell instead only took in the rancid smell of garbage bins each time they stopped.

Despite his frustration with such limited information, he had to admit that that it was a smart move by Roderick in regards to hiding Ryan from any cameras or people who may help the FBI find him. After all, it limited anyone seeing him or hearing him if he chose to call for help, since people rarely liked to go out near the garbage bins of any establishment. Of course, Ryan would never have tried to call out, anyway. Despite his want to be away from these men and back where he felt safer, Claire and Joey were still in jeopardy, and he refused to put them in any more danger. It was because of that determination that he resolved to sit quietly in his spot like a good little captive every time they stopped. He only wished his stomach had resolved to do that, too.

Each time they stopped to grab something to eat, Ryan couldn't help but feel his stomach rumble in irritation and hunger. Over time that hunger turned into a dull pain, as if his stomach was punishing Ryan for the lack of food it was receiving. This was because the men, although gorging on fast food themselves, didn't give him a single thing. He supposed it was to keep him weak, and in that way he supposed that it was just another smart way to ensure a successful kidnapping and delivery to Joe, but honestly, what could a little French Fry hurt? It wasn't like Popeye with his spinach, in that that one French Fry would give Ryan enough inhuman strength to break out of his predicament! Still, he knew better than to ask for food. He still remembered how angry Roderick had gotten in the parking lot just because Ryan had asked a simple question, and he had decided that he wasn't going to try to draw that anger out again. Rather, he settled for accepting what they did give him, which was a cup of water, sipping the cool liquid through a straw they held to his lips. It may not be alcohol or something he might prefer more, but at least it was something to keep his throat from getting too dry.

On the down side of receiving the water, by drinking it Ryan had to in turn urinate quite frequently afterwards. While the men would go to rest stops during the stops when they didn't get food, going in sequential order to use the facilities of the location for themselves, they did not extend such a luxury to Ryan. Instead, to make sure that absolutely no one who wasn't in the car would ever see or hear Ryan, Roderick would find old dirt roads, pull onto them, and bounce along them as he drove for a while before stopping the car. Then, John and Marcus would climb out of the car, drag Ryan out with them, and refusing to let him out of his bonds, made him shuffle away from the car for a few yards before unzipping him themselves. Then, they held his manhood to help prevent the urine from getting on his pants as they let him pee. That was probably the part of the trip that mortified Ryan the most. He could take getting starved, and was getting used to being bound, but to have another man handle him while he peed . . . it was just such a huge violation of his privacy that he couldn't help but blush and turn his head away from where he felt the men were, much to the men's amusement. He knew it had this effect upon them, because John would laugh in a gruff voice, calling him a little "pansy" each time he did so, and Marcus would in turn snicker.

Overall, Ryan was pretty sure that the car travelled for at least two days. He primarily assumed this because he fell asleep two times. The first time, he'd awoken groggily from his sleep as Roderick had stopped the car so that the driver and Cedric would go get breakfast. It was in that moment right after the car stopped that Ryan realized that he had been drooling and laying his head on Marcus's shoulder. Ryan had moved quickly off of the man beside him, ducking his head in an attempt to take on a submissive, nonthreatening position, and had whispered that he was sorry at least twenty times. The man had chuckled as if Ryan had said a joke, and said, "Hey, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, right? And besides, I'm too tough for a little drool to kill me." Although Ryan had been happy that he hadn't gotten Marcus really angry, the man's jovialness concerning the entire matter had been unsettling to the former FBI agent. After all, while Ryan wasn't entirely sure that Marcus was one of the primary ones that had harmed him in the parking lot of the book factory because he really felt that that behavior would be something one of the others would do rather than Marcus, he still knew that Marcus was both well-built and a follower of Joe Carroll. Therefore, because of the strength Ryan knew Marcus had and because of the negative perspective regarding Ryan that the man probably held, Ryan had in the very least expected a harsh shove from the man in order to get Ryan off of his shoulder. Due to that reasoning, a shove would have oddly enough made Ryan feel better, because it would have fit the situation more and therefore would have made more sense to Ryan.

Ryan got that response soon enough, from John when Ryan lay against him by mistake the second time Ryan had fallen asleep. That sleep had been cut short, with John growling and shoving Ryan off of his shoulder. Ryan had been unsettled by John's harsh reaction, but deep down it had comforted him because at least that one made more sense than Marcus's reaction, and Ryan had continued to sleep with his head simply tossed over the back of the seat for the rest of the ride.

Now Ryan was pretty sure it was day three, as he sat quietly in the car. Twiddling his fingers a little behind him, Ryan sighed as he sat there, waiting and hoping that they would reach their destination soon, head hung forward, lulling back and forth a little as the car moved. Every now and again, he tried to flex his arms, moving them up and down to try to keep the stiffness in them as low as possible, or to shift his legs around to try to keep as much feeling in them as possible. That only resulted in a groan from him as a mild pain shot up from both sets of limbs, and not too much progress as far as feeling went. Ryan sighed, and hung his head a bit more, blinking against the blindfold. He hated being in such an enclosed space for so long, and the fact that he was between two huge men like Marcus and John didn't help matters in the least. Over the course of the ride, the two had revealed to him in light conversation that they were both former muscle builders and boxers who had had a bit too much of a taste for blood.

They'd both been in and out of jail, and had been found by Roderick and trained in one of Joe's "killing camps", whatever those were. After revealing that much, John had become quiet. Marcus on the other hand had gone on to describe the first time he'd "really drawn blood in a fight" with great enthusiasm. Ryan had tried his hardest to block it out, occasionally nodding to satisfy the man beside him. After all, while he hated the conversation the man was carrying on, he didn't need the man to know that and get angry because of it. Just because the man hadn't got angry yet didn't mean that he wouldn't later. So Ryan wanted to leave all of his buttons un-pushed.

Ryan was about to doze off yet again, his head still hanging forward, when Marcus prodded him with a pen, "Hey Hardy, 50 across, four letters . . . first letter 'A', third letter 'E'. . . means 'egg on'. Or at least, that's the hint." Ryan frowned and turned his head in that direction. Another thing he'd learned about Marcus was that the guy loved to do crossword puzzles, and had been doing them constantly this whole trip, as far as Ryan knew. Marcus sucked at them, asked someone for the answer about half the time, but for whatever reason, loved doing them. Especially when there was nothing else to do. And Ryan, who was actually alright at crossword puzzles, had become Marcus's favorite little answer key, frequently prodded and asked questions by the other man. Not that Ryan really had an issue with it. If nothing else, the crossword puzzles had helped occupy the time, even if they were monotonous and tedious for him. Just sitting in the darkness caused by the blindfold for the whole ride would have been far worse. Now he thought about the word Marcus was asking about for a moment, before. . . "Try 'Abet'," he turned back around with his head positioned so that he would be gazing through the windshield of the car if not for the cloth around his eyes.

No music played any more in the car, and John was actually snoring at this point, being extremely loud as he did so. Roderick and Cedric were silent. Ryan imagined that Roderick was probably exhausted from driving for so long, and Cedric may be just as ready to get out of the van as Ryan was. That was one thing that bothered Ryan: Cedric's silence, which had for the most part lasted the whole ride. He could already know something about Roderick, John, and Marcus by how they acted and spoke. Roderick came across to Ryan as cocky, arrogant, and prone to bouts of anger. He was clearly a man who liked control, and didn't like when his authority was being questioned. John came across as severely angry for whatever reason and given what Ryan had learned about Marcus and John through their conversations, quite hot tempered. And Marcus was probably hot tempered like John at times, but from what Ryan could tell, he also had a happy, nice side whenever he chose to reveal it. But Cedric . . . Ryan had no idea about Cedric. He couldn't help but think that perhaps the man was just as bland in reality as he came across to Ryan. He seemed to Ryan to be just a puppet to be used by the cult. It made Ryan wonder all the more about what Cedric's past could have been and what could have brought him into the cult. And what could have happened to make him so reserved, if that truly was his true character?

"Thanks!" Marcus gasped, and Ryan heard the grin in his voice. Ryan blinked behind his blindfold, and whispered, _"No problem."_ At first he had thought that Marcus liking crossword puzzles was weird. It seemed like too much of a _normal _thing for a follower to do, even if that follower was as confusing to Ryan as Marcus was. When he'd asked, Marcus had explained that when he'd been in jail for physical assaults, he'd used crossword puzzles from newspapers he'd received from the guards to pass the time, waiting to get back out early on good behavior. He'd said he wasn't really good at them, and that many other inmates had laughed and asked him why he even bothered, but to him, it only meant that it passed even more time. Ryan could definitely understand that logic. He could understand Marcus seeking something that wouldn't draw too much negative attention to himself to pass the time with, and he could understand Marcus wanting it to be difficult for himself to make the time fly by faster. And given how long he imagined Marcus was in jail, he supposed it had become more or less a habit by the time the man had gotten released . . . But to Ryan, the fact that the man loved doing them didn't fully explain how excited Marcus got when Ryan helped him with words that Marcus found difficult.

Ryan wondered vaguely if, in Marcus's mind, the follower perceived himself and Ryan as being just like two friends having fun finishing a puzzle together under normal circumstances. Ryan knew that the real situation was far from that, but he figured that that was the thing about Joe's followers. Something had to be messed up somewhere up top for them to follow the serial killer so devoutly, and any form of mental disorder could alter one's perception. And if in Marcus's sick mind Ryan _was _just like a friend, who was Ryan to refuse? In the situation he was in, Ryan could certainly use a friend, albeit how short that friendship may last.

In the silence that followed Marcus thanking him, as Marcus made little noises as he bit the tip of his pen and tried to figure out yet another word that he was probably going to ask Ryan about in the end anyway, Ryan's own mind returned to something he had been wondering about on and off throughout the whole ride: had anyone found his car yet? He wondered vaguely if Mike was awake now, or even if Tyson was awake. He wondered if anybody was trying to find him yet . . . or if they'd even found his note. What if they never found his car or his note? Ryan certainly hoped that they would, if nothing else, to get some form of closure concerning him for themselves . . . At that moment, Marcus spoke up again, prodding Ryan with his pen again, "Hey, how about 52 across? Four letters . . . two last letters are 'S's . . . definition. . . 'Scottish loch'." Ryan frowned and opened his mouth to answer the man, when he felt the car stop. He frowned, and lifted his head a bit more, his ears and senses going on full alert as he straightened his back as much as he could, holding his breath. What was going on? Where were they? Were they just stopping somewhere, or had they . . . could they have possibly . . . arrived?

Marcus prodded Ryan again, "Hey Hardy, I just asked. . ." "I know, I know," Ryan whispered quickly, "It's . . . it's . . . try 'Ness'." He heard the man scribbling again, then felt John grunt as he woke up beside Ryan and leaned forward, his muscular arm pressing against the prisoner and pushing Ryan a bit to the side, some of the other man's joints popping as the man stretched forward towards the front of the car, "Hey Roderick, why'd ya stop man? We got trouble?" Ryan frowned, waiting earnestly for Roderick to answer, leaning forward himself. But instead of an immediate reply from Roderick, he heard a faint grating of metal and the squeak of a hinge, like the sounds of a gate opening. He gritted his teeth, and heard Roderick shift in his seat. From the amount of movement that he heard, he instinctively knew that Roderick had turned around to face the back seat. Ryan's feet shifted a little against the carpeted floor of the car, and he flexed his fingers a little in apprehension, then heard Roderick finally speak, and heard the smile in his voice, "No John, we're far from being in trouble . . . Hardy. . ." He rested a hand on Ryan's knee and gave it a rough squeeze and shake. Ryan licked his lips nervously, and turned his head more towards Roderick, feeling a nervousness creep into him. Since they'd started the drive, Roderick hadn't really addressed Ryan directly at all. Only Marcus and John had. That meant that Ryan knew that what Roderick had to say was much more important than some bathroom break, _"Yes sir?" _he whispered hoarsely, his heart beating in his ears. Roderick chuckled, "Welcome to your new home." With that, he patted Ryan hard on the cheek, almost slapping Ryan as he did so, before turning around and moving the car forward.

Marcus gave a whoop of excitement and Ryan heard the sound of the crossword puzzle book being slapped hard against the back of the front seat, "YES! FINALLY! WE'VE MADE IT!" _"You can say that again,"_ John grunted beside Ryan as he began to stretch more, his back popping a little, "Damn, I'm ready to get out of this SUV. . . if I never have to see it again, it'll be too soon." "Ditto," Cedric replied with almost zero emotion. Ryan gritted his teeth and sat up a little straighter, shifting even more in anticipation. He was here! At the safe house! He was about to see where Joe Carroll and his cult were hiding out! The place that they'd been looking for! His inner agent couldn't help but get excited! After all, he was about to . . . _"Don't get any ideas, Hardy," _John snarled, gripping Ryan's chin and wrenching his head around towards the angry man. Ryan grunted, as John continued, _"You're not to move or remove your blindfold unless one of us or Joe tells ya to."_ Ryan gritted his teeth, and then whispered, _"Wh-why are you saying that?" _"You said 'Finally, I'll see it'. It was under your breath, but you did say it," Cedric said with an exasperated sigh, like they both were children that he had to baby sit unwillingly. Ryan bit his lip as he was brought back down from the high he'd felt before, and hung his head, _"S-sorry. I-I didn't realize I'd said it. I promise I'll do whatever you say. I won't remove it until I'm told, I swear." _John snarled and wrenched his hand away, "That's obvious." Ryan sighed and turned to face ahead of himself again. That had been _so_ careless of him. How could he have let that slip out?! He couldn't give them reason to hurt him at all right now! Not in this vulnerable position!

Ryan was silent the entire drive up a surprisingly smooth driveway. He hadn't expected it to be smoothed down. . . he supposed that when it came to a home for Joe, the followers weren't ones to pinch pennies or let tasks go by undone. The car stopped gently, and Roderick and Cedric piled out of the front seats. Then the back right door opened and Ryan frowned, as John slid out quickly. Then, one of Marcus's arms was across his shoulders, and both of Marcus's hands gripped his shoulder blades. _"Alright, bud. Out ya go!" _Marcus said far too happily. At that moment, Ryan's ankles were grabbed, and he grunted as his legs were pulled roughly up and around, to be laid flat on the seat where John had been sitting, his back now to Marcus's side since he'd been turned around along with his legs. Then John quickly repositioned his grip on the man's ankles, and snarled, _"If you want to do this with less pain, Hardy, you know the drill. Help us out."_ He gave a harsh pull on Ryan's ankles, pulling Ryan's calves entirely out of the car. Ryan grunted, and moved around in the seat a little, pushing off with his arms as best as he could as he also tried to wriggle himself across the seat until he was sitting on the edge of it. Then, he smelled for the first time the air around the place where he was at.

Cool, crisp air flooded into his senses, kissing his mouth and nose, and he shuddered a little. Once he got used to it, he realized that it in fact seemed to be a similar temperature to Boston, but definitely a couple of degrees lower. He frowned. They may be close to Washington DC . . . somewhere in that area. Huh . . . a huge cult of killers that the FBI was after, and they may be near the nation's capital? _Yeah, that's not risky at all, _Ryan thought sarcastically. . . But then, who would expect them to be there? Maybe the point was that they were hiding in a spot so far under the government's nose that the government didn't even think to look there. And besides, Joe might like being so close. In his own way, Joe may be taunting the government that had locked him away by being so dangerously close to them without them even knowing it.

"Come on Ryan, out of the car," Roderick said in a cheery drawl. At that Marcus gave him one last push, and Ryan grunted, lowering himself out of the car. John grunted, and gripped one arm as Marcus moved to grip the other, the two's arms moving in less than half a second to keep Ryan standing and still under their direct control, and as John yanked Ryan away from the car with his right arm, Marcus held his left arm and descended from the vehicle, and the door slammed closed. Ryan staggered a little in their grips at the quick movements, his nostrils flaring as he caught more scents on the air. He actually smelled something akin to a bakery or restaurant, like someone was cooking food that actually . . . smelled pretty good. It made his stomach growl. Ryan frowned a bit as he also found out that he smelled flowers. . . what kind of cult like this planted flowers? Or actually put enough hard work into making food that smelled that great? He frowned, puzzled at that, and then John and Marcus tugged him forward a little more, as the first grunted a quick, _"Come on now. . .move" _Ryan licked his lips a little, his legs feeling like pins and needles all over, and nodded. But as he moved to step forward, and as John and Marcus slightly loosened their holds on him and let him more or less stand on his own rather than being held up by them, the full effects of that long hit Ryan like a semi. He quickly realized that his legs were far too shaky and unstable to do as they asked because of having been cramped in the car for so long, and Ryan grunted as he slammed hard into the gravel driveway on his knees, Marcus and John luckily grabbing him and holding him tightly enough so that they caught him before he hit the rocks with his face.

The sharp stones bit into his pants, tearing them a little and causing fresh blood to pour. "What the hell's wrong with you?!" John yelled at the man in fury, and Ryan shrinked back a bit at the harshness in his voice, leaning towards Marcus and away from the angrier man, anticipating a strike from his harsher holder, ready to duck any blow that he could hear coming.

"_Calm down,"_ Roderick muttered, then walked up, knelt down, and shook Ryan's shoulder, as if he were best friends with the former agent. Ryan gave a shuddering breath, as Roderick slurred "Just a little wobble-legged from the long drive, aren't we Ryan?" Ryan gritted his teeth and nodded. The man patted his shoulder and let his hand rest there for about two minutes as Ryan shifted nervously, then the abductor leader remarked, "Let's try that again, alright?" Ryan frowned and nodded. Once more, they eased him into a standing position. His legs were still shaky, but much more stable now. He let out a sigh of relief. He felt like he could at least move around on these legs . . . at least a little . . . "Alright bud, let's go," Roderick said cheerfully, and Ryan grunted, shuffling forward. Roderick slapped him a little on the back as he passed by the leader of the group, saying cheerily, "Into the house we go!" Ryan sighed and moved forward. He decidedly did not share the man's enthusiasm.

After being lifted up the steps due to the fact that he couldn't maneuver them well with the cuffs on his ankles and after walking over a threshold, Ryan heard his boots clacking against a tile floor. He was in the house . . . He supposed he was walking across a foyer. At that moment he was stopped, still held tightly by Marcus and John. He heard two sets of footsteps as the door he had entered through was shut and locked behind him, and then those pairs of feet walked around either side of him, Marcus, and John. He knew it had to be Cedric and Roderick, just closing the doors. Blocking his only way out of this madhouse. He gritted his teeth a little and turned his head a little in the direction of the door, an even newer wave of nervous energy filling him. He'd grown used to the trapped feeling he'd felt at first in the van with Roderick, Cedric, Marcus, and John. This was a new feeling though. A more . . . permanent feeling of being trapped. He felt like that door wasn't just closing him in. He felt like it was blocking any freedom he might have had before entering the house out.

He blinked behind the blindfold, and then Roderick gripped his chin and jerked his head around to face the man now standing in front of him. Ryan gritted his teeth against the man's alcohol scented breath as he was brought nose to nose with the man who'd just driven him all the way to his doom. Roderick muttered, squeezing his fingers hard on Ryan's jaw, causing a slight amount of pain that promised more . . . _"Now remember, Ryan. Act up one bit, and Claire and Joey get hurt. Do you understand me?"_

Ryan licked his lips nervously. Roderick's tone was cold, callus. Nothing like when he'd fallen outside. All the cheeriness had left. The sheriff was all business, and to Ryan, that translated as even more dangerous. He nodded, _"Yes sir."_ He didn't want to do anything to harm Claire or Joey, after all. "_Good_," Roderick slurred, then growled_, "Unlock his feet."_ Marcus and John immediately let go of Ryan's arms as Roderick continued to hold Ryan by the chin, and the two men who'd been standing beside Ryan began to un-cuff his feet. Marcus let his hand run along the cuts on the sides of Ryan's left ankle and sighed, _"Sorry man, had to be done." _Ryan shuddered and nodded a little, _"It's ok." _John suddenly scoffed, "Damn, Marcus, you're getting soft on me." "AM NOT!" Marcus roared, showing his anger for the first time. The ferocity of those two words was enough to make Ryan tremble. Yes, he'd been right not to incite the man in the car.

"_Calm down," _Roderick muttered, "You two, move his arms back around to his front. . . Cedric, hand me the chain." Ryan heard the rattling of a chain, and felt Roderick's hand leave his chin right before John and Marcus both grabbed Ryan's arms. Ryan bit back the yelp as they moved his sore shoulders around quickly so that his hands were in front of him. Instead, he gritted his teeth and blew out hard through them, tensing and whimpering a little. Marcus sighed, resting a hand on his left shoulder and massaging it, "Sorry man. But, like I said. . ." _"It had to be done, I know. It's ok, Marcus, really. Thanks for caring about my pain," _Ryan whispered quickly, trying to find the right words to say that wouldn't make the man mad. Marcus smiled and slapped him on the back, making Ryan grunt a little at the force, _"See ya later pal!" _John had already walked away. Marcus turned and walked off just as something was snapped onto Ryan's handcuff chain.

Ryan blinked, frowning, and moved his hands slowly in to one another as Marcus walked off, and worked his fingers over the thing connected to his chain. It felt like a large cold lever snap, attached to a slender chain. . . "Don't get any ideas, Hardy, you won't get very far," Roderick muttered, and Ryan heard Cedric walking away. He shook his head, _"I'm not going to try to run, Roderick." _Roderick chuckled, "Smart man. . ." Then, Ryan had to close his eyes tightly, as he felt Roderick hook one finger under his blindfold and in the next instant, the blindfold was wrenched off.

Ryan gritted his teeth and waited a moment before slowly opening his eyes. Bright light flooded his vision at first and that was all he could see, but soon he took in the large white clean foyer that he was in. It was a massive room with well-painted white walls and various stained wooden doors that had been made to hold a burgundy color leading off from it, all of which were closed and had clean metal doorknobs. Light streamed in through massive windows set along a thin but tall staircase with red stained wood for each step that stood before him. He looked up, blinking, at a large crystal chandelier. He frowned. He'd definitely expected something more militant, more crude . . . not something this . . . nice. In that moment, he didn't know if the nicer facilities made him feel better about Claire and Joey being here, or made him feel more worry and fear because the nicer facilities weren't what he had expected. Maybe he felt both and the two different emotions swirling together were what caused him so much emotional confusion.

There was a jerk on his wrists, and he moved his gaze to Roderick as he was pulled from his thoughts. The man already stood on the first stair of the staircase, frowning at him, the chain held firmly in his left hand, "Come on, Hardy. It's time to go up the stairs. You can walk now, so you should be fine." Ryan gritted his teeth and hesitated, considering taking Roderick down and turning and running to get away. To find some way out of this crazy place before he ventured deeper within it. Roderick frowned and moved the black jacket he wore over a dark grey shirt and slacks aside a little, resting his hand on the holster of the gun around his waist, "I see that look in your eyes, Hardy, and let me tell ya something: don't even think about it. Trust me. The best thing you can do right now is do as you're told. Otherwise you, Claire and Joey will get hurt."

In that moment Ryan fully took Roderick in for the first time. The man was of an average height with sandy blonde hair that was cut in an average way. He had a bit of muscle tone, but not really excessive muscle tone. It seemed that although Roderick did have a face that most girls might find attractive, he was overall average. That kind of caught Ryan off guard. After all, Joe wasn't necessarily what Ryan would call average in appearance. But then again, maybe that was just Ryan's perspective because he now knew what Joe had been all along. Besides, when it came down to it, whether Joe was average or not, he could see the plus side in having a slightly attractive but mostly average male organizing things for the cult underneath Joe. Roderick wouldn't be easily identified, wouldn't stand out in a crowd. He could blend right in, and still flirt with girls and be charismatic enough to get what he needed. And when all else failed to get him what he wanted, like he was doing with Ryan right now, there was always that gun at his waist. . .

Ryan sighed and nodded, hanging his head in submission before moving forward, following Roderick up the stairs and down a long hallway on red carpet. Moving deeper into what he considered The House of Hell. Who knew what kind of sick, murderous people lurked in these walls, many of them probably just itching to slice his throat open and watch his life blood stream out. Not to mention the king of those people, who was no doubt somewhere in the house, waiting for Ryan and planning the former agent's demise.

As Ryan walked down the hall, his eyes darted around, taking in the white walls and dark red doors that continued on in this part of the home as well. The molding on this floor was nothing extravagant, but it was still well done, as it had been on the floor below. He wondered if the whole house was so nicely constructed and maintained like this, or if just this particular part was constructed and maintained like this. He felt his breath quicken a little in anticipation with every step, and began to wonder other, much more pressing, matters, as he gazed at the back of Roderick's head. Where _was _Roderick taking him? Was it to a torture chamber? Or to Joe Carroll himself? Where?

They finally stopped at the end of the hall, with a large red door standing before them with a golden ornate old fashioned handle and keyhole set into it. Ryan frowned and tilted his head, gazing at the handle. It was a door knob, with petals etched into the handle, with an engraving of a lion's closed mouthed head on the knob. He turned and blinked at the door knobs on the other doors of the hall as Roderick began to fumble around in his pockets, searching for the key to the room before them, no doubt. All the other door knobs were cheap and normal in their construction. Ryan frowned and turned to the door, puzzled at what expenses he imagined might have gone into tis knob, even if it was fake gold, _"Is this where Joe is?" _Roderick grunted and shook his head, searching his other pocket. Ryan tried not to grin at the man's confusion, as Roderick muttered, _"Why the hell would you be sleeping in Joe's room? He doesn't want you for THAT, I know that much. . . not that I know much of what that guy is planning these days. . .He wanted Joey, then he wanted Claire. Then he wanted you. What's next? The whole FBI?" _he muttered the last few phrases. Ryan blinked, frowning a bit harder. And here he thought all the followers, especially Roderick, would just follow Joe to the ends of the earth . . . maybe they were all more complex than he'd originally thought?

Roderick finally pulled a long slender golden key out that had leaves matching the leaves on the door handle along its hoop, with a red tassel dotted with gold stitches dangling from it, from his pocket, and slid it into the lock, glancing back at Ryan, and Ryan met his eyes with his own blue eyes as Roderick continued, "You'll be staying here when you're not needed elsewhere." He turned the key, turned to face the door, and turning the ornate handle of the door, pushed it open. Ryan heard the wood scuff against carpet, and then Roderick stood to the side of the door on the outside, frowning at Ryan and holding a hand up to gesture towards the room that lay beyond, "So get in. So I can hurry this along a bit faster and go get some sleep. Not all of us got to just ride along in that trip, Hardy." Ryan frowned, holding back a smart response about how he hadn't really wanted Roderick to have to have made the trip in the first place, and walked in slowly, looking around. He couldn't help but stare.

His boots sank into the fresh new, burgundy carpet beneath him, as Ryan gazed around the normal sized room. The entire room had a deep plain dark blue wall paper. However, as Ryan took a closer look at the white crown molding of the wall, he saw that the molding was anything but plain. He realized this because etched into the crown molding were tiny lighthouses of varying shapes and sizes, the row formed of them stretching the full perimeter of the room's molding. Lamps lined the walls in equidistance from one another, made of metal treated to look like gold, scooping down into a low curve from their locked hinge bases and then curling back up into an "S" with parts of the metal branching off in soft curls like vines. Over the electrical bulbs sat antique looking burgundy velvet dome lamp shades with burgundy rope tassels dangling down, causing the lights within to be split up so that they projected onto the walls around them as red tinged bars made by velvet, with a small opening in the top of each lampshade casting a cone light projection onto the ceiling of the room, which was made of stucco, forming little red tinged circles that dotted the ceiling's perimeter.

Against one wall opposite them was a large oak dresser stained to match all of the doors of the house that Ryan had seen thus far, standing short beside a tall oak wardrobe stained to match the dresser, each with ornate lions' feet carved into the bottoms of each leg and painted to appear to be made of gold. On the dresser there was also a twelve inch by sixteen inch facial mirror set in a golden colored frame. On the other side of the wardrobe was a circular window seat, with three windows with black molding setting them into the thin black painted wooden frames surrounding each pane of glass. The seat was a black wooden seat with a lush burgundy velvet cushion attached to it, and between the window seat and the wardrobe was a full body mirror, set about three feet from the wall, not too far into the room but not too close to the wall. It was, like the facial mirror, lined in a golden looking frame, and curved elegantly at the top with metal curls branching off from it as it met in the center of one central curl at the tip top of the mirror. Near the window seat and set into the wall perpendicular to the wall with the window seat and to the right of Ryan was a burgundy stained door that no doubt led to a bathroom.

The bed of the room was a four poster ornate oak bed that had been stained to match the dresser and wardrobe. The headboard of the bed curved and arched beautifully as it met at a central point, with beautiful vines and flowers carved carefully into its surface, with gold paint in the lining of each edge of the design. The footboard of the bed held an identical design, and was just a regular rectangle. The four posts of the bed rose up tall from painted golden lion's feet to reach just about two inches below the ceiling of the room with their long rods narrowing and flaring out as they traveled to the ceiling, with orbs with differing intricate designs etched inside of them sculpted along the rods at the posts' widest points, the edges of such designs also painted gold. The wooden two by fours that ran between the four posts of the bed were perhaps stained to be burgundy as well, but were hidden beneath a burgundy chiffon cloth that had been diligently wrapped around the two by fours, with black plastic vines and golden flowers wrapped within the chiffon and peeking out to add to the beauty of the room.

Upon the bed frame was a massive, comfy looking mattress set at a comfortable height. Upon that mattress Ryan could make out a silky ornate looking burgundy comforter with some form of darker red designs upon it that Ryan couldn't as of yet quite make out, and along the box springs beneath the mattress ran a runner that appeared to match the comforter. Atop the comforter were a large amount of body and regular pillows of various shapes and sizes lying scattered and comfortable looking upon the bed. Some appeared to look like silk, while others looked like velvet. All looked like something Ryan wouldn't normally mind resting his head upon.

Beside the bed on the side closest to the door through which Ryan had entered, was a smaller burgundy stained oak bed side table with a table lamp upon it that seemed to match the lamps on the walls with a few differences. The base of the lamp was a wide golden looking circle that seemed to taper up into the long golden rod that would hold the lamp's light. That rod branched off early into two curves, which arched out and then back in like a forward "S" and a backward "S" to meet at the top just beneath what Ryan was sure was the light of the lamp, which was covered by a shade identical to those of the wall lamps. The base of the lamp itself had golden leaves etched into it like the door knob to his room had on its handle. That lamp was the last source of artificial light to be found in the room, as far as Ryan knew. Also lying upon the bed side table was an alarm clock, its red digital numbers glaring into the room. For the moment, Ryan didn't pay attention to the time.

Instead, he moved his attention to the pictures that lined the dark blue walls. There was one massive one that was an oil painting over his bed set in a golden frame that held a beautiful picture of a tall black and white lighthouse overlooking the sea as waves crashed onto its rocky shore. Mixed into those waves, Ryan could see an unlucky boat, the crew of which appeared to have clamored onto the rocky coast around the lighthouse in a last ditch attempt to save their own lives while their way of making a living was destined to be shattered into bits of debris against the rocks they stood upon. Other oil paintings lined the rest of the walls and were abstracts of beautiful shades of reds and blues, swirling together or standing out in straight lines and obscure orbs and shapes, creating beauty out of insanity. Ryan sighed a little. Yes, in its own way, the room screamed Joe. And now, Ryan was going to be placed in the room. Like a helpless doll being placed in a dollhouse. Just like Joe probably wanted him to be.

Roderick pulled Ryan out of his thoughts. "Joe's got some work to do right now, but he hopes that you'll be comfortable in this room," Roderick said quickly, gripping Ryan's arm and pulling the man further into the room. The follower stopped halfway into the room, but Ryan continued to walk onward until he had walked up to the bed. The former agent gazed at the comforter more closely. It was as he'd thought, a silky comforter material with darker red burgundy velvet vine, bird, insect, and flower decorations rising up from it. He ran his fingertips over the design of one long leaf and flower laden vine, frowning. He didn't know whether to be offended or grateful that Joe had something to do that the killer felt took priority over Ryan. Then again, maybe he was preparing for Ryan, preparing whatever he had planned. . . Ryan's stomach did a somersault and he grimaced a bit as the possibilities he'd thought up previously in regards to what Joe might have planned for him ran through his mind yet again.

He then heard the machinelike whirl of a camera. He turned his head, frowning at a high tech white security camera coming down from the white ceiling, turning and focusing on him. It had a round base upon which the camera holder could swivel around, and the holder itself was hinged so that the camera could be tilted up or down according to what the viewer needed. Ryan frowned and turned his head slightly. Yes, there were three other cameras, in all the other main corners of the room. Always watching him, trained on him. Ryan gritted his teeth a little, frowning hard at the camera he'd first noticed yet again . . . the fact that Joe would have cameras on him in the main place he would apparently be when Joe didn't want him elsewhere didn't really surprise Ryan. But that didn't mean he was 100% ok with it. That just meant he had to watch what he did every minute.

Roderick clapped a hard hand on Ryan's right shoulder as he walked past the man, continuing, "Joe just doesn't want to leave you unmonitored, Ryan. In case you may try something foolish. I recommend, personally, that you _don't_ try something foolish." Roderick drawled, walking to the wardrobe, "Now, you'll find all you need to freshen up and shave inside the bathroom. . ." he nodded to the bathroom door, and gripped the two golden ornate knobs of the wardrobe doors, which matched the doorknob leading into Ryan's room, and opened the wardrobe wide. Ryan blinked, frowning as he watched Roderick reveal some neatly pressed button down shirts which appeared to be either made out of silk or a silky material from where Ryan stood and that were light gray, dark gray, black, burgundy, or dark blue in color, hanging in the closet, with black dress slacks hanging beside each shirt. Ryan also caught sight of some dress shoes at the bottom of the closet sitting in perfect pairs in a row, along with a pair of regular black leather work boots and a pair of dark gray, black, and red sneakers.

Roderick turned to him, and rested a hand on a shirt and slacks set that had a burgundy shirt to it, "Now, you are to wear any of these pairs of shirts and pants to meet Joe at all times, unless you are ordered to wear something different. As far as the colors of the shirts you wear, as of right now it's your choice. They're all your size. Socks can be found in the bottom drawer of your dresser. Any questions?"

Ryan frowned, "Three: first, why is Joe treating me like this when I'm just his prisoner? Giving me my own room like this one . . . it seems a bit too extravagant for him to give it to me, the man who once brought him to justice. Second, are there cameras in the bathroom as well? Is he completely invading my privacy? . . . And third, why the hell should I do just what Joe wants?" he narrowed his eyes at the last question. He didn't originally have that question in his list that he'd been forming in his head, but when Roderick had said the word 'ordered', it'd struck a nerve with Ryan. He _hated_ being ordered around like he was some mindless drone only meant to do as his master said. And to be ordered regarding something as simple as clothes only struck at his pride all the more.

Roderick frowned and walked over to be toe to toe with Ryan, glaring hard at him, "Alright, Hardy, I'll answer all of your questions right now, so you better listen up. First, Joe is treating you like this because he feels like it. You should be grateful, not criticizing it. No one else in this damn house besides Joe or his family gets better accommodations. So I don't care how wrong it seems to you, you better suck it up and deal with it. You're in his house now, with his rules. Second, yes, there are cameras in there. Get used to it and get over it. You gave up any right to your privacy when you put on that blindfold. And third, the same reason you came here, or have you forgotten it already?" he sneered, "_To protect Claire and Joey. Now, you don't want them hurt, do you?"_ Ryan frowned hard at the blonde. He didn't like all of what Roderick was saying . . . but he knew deep down that he couldn't rebel very much. The most he should do until he got to see Joe and figure out what the hell the man might have planned for him was to just make little comments, and even with those he needed to watch it. He closed his eyes and shook his head, _"No, Roderick, I don't . . . I don't want them hurt."_

Roderick smirked and took a step back, "Good. Now. . ." he walked past Ryan, shoving him to the side with his shoulder and making the former agent stagger to the side a little. Ryan gritted his teeth a bit as he sat a bit on the bed to steady himself, and then stood back up as he watched Roderick pull out the top drawer of the two drawer bed side table and bring out 3 20 oz water bottles. He turned to Ryan and held them up to the former agent, "Joe wants you to finish all three of these before dinner at 7:00. Don't ask why, just do it. At 7:00 you are to be ready to dine with him. That's when I'll come to get you." Ryan frowned, and nodded slowly.

With that confirmation Roderick walked forward, took out a silver key, and after disconnecting the snap of the longer chain from the handcuff chain in between Ryan's wrists, he unlocked Ryan's hand cuffs, frowning hard at the agent with determined eyes, "Don't do anything stupid, got it?" Ryan frowned and slowly nodded. Roderick then dropped the handcuffs from Ryan's red and sore wrists, and turning, marched out quickly, slamming the door closed behind him and locking it from the outside, there being no knob on the inside paneling of the door. Ryan gritted his teeth. Like that, he was trapped in the room of both luxury and horror. . .

Ryan entered the long, large bathroom, and gazed around. The tiles on the floor were all black, and the wallpaper was once again blue with white crown molding that included little white lighthouses. He frowned. He rubbed his reddened and chaffed wrists a little and walked further in, gazing about. Against one wall to his right was a long black long counter holding one sink with gold looking ornate handles on all of its cabinets and a golden looking metal faucet with ornate handles to control the water that would spill out of it into the large black sink bowl beneath it. Over the long counter on the wall was a large mirror in a golden frame, with 6 small light bulbs sticking out of the wider part of the frame at the top of the mirror.

A small alcove was set into the wall on that side of the bathroom between the sink and the shower area, and inside that was the toilet. The toilet was black with gold lining like the rest of the furniture in the bathroom, and the toilet paper was hung primly on a golden holder in the wall. Across from the sink and toilet on the bare left wall was a towel rack. It was a golden painted towel rack, with dark burgundy colored, massive towels tossed over it. The black bathtub which was curved in such a way that it seemed to curve into the rest of the room rather than just be a square set against the wall doubled as a shower with black tile walls that reached to the stucco ceiling and that had a large rain shower head coming down from above to spray fresh water down upon the occupant. It could also be a whirlpool tub, Ryan discovered upon closer inspection. The entire structure had a black shower curtain around it along a curved golden looking metal rod. After leaning up and stretching to test the rod, to see if it could come out and be used as a weapon, Ryan realized it in fact could not be. It was bolted in. Immovable.

The whirring of a camera once again caught his attention. He turned his head, frowning. One camera identical to the ones in the bedroom but seemingly covered by a hard plastic dome was set in a corner of the ceiling overlooking the shower, whilst another was in a corner near the door to the bathroom. He narrowed his eyes. He could understand watching him in the shower, in that he could try to hurt himself there, but come on . . . was Joe really that much of a perv? The dry joke at least brought a little smile to his face and a chuckle from his throat, and Ryan shook his head at himself before turning and heading back towards the door.

On his way, he decided to turn to inspect the bathroom counter, and began to explore the drawers slowly. In the top drawer to the right of the sink, he found a toothbrush that was an impeccable match to his toothbrush that he had at his apartment. He frowned and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it and finding that it was still sealed in the packaging and didn't appear to be tampered with. Next came the tooth paste. Again, the same as his at home with no tampering. Beside those was a pack of his favorite floss brand, again without tampering. And last, a bar of hand soap all wrapped up in its own packaging, just like his at the apartment, beside a super soft burgundy hand or face towel. He frowned and slid that drawer closed. It glided into place with zero resistance.

He went to the next drawer down and slid that open. Here, neatly placed upon a burgundy towel, were nail hygiene supplies, as well as a mechanical razor. He frowned. He'd had one for a while at the apartment, and had been meaning to get another one. It didn't cut him nearly as bad as a manual one. . . the only thing missing from that razor were the extra heads it came with. He supposed those were kept away so that he didn't hurt himself on them. . . He figured he'd have to ask for them when he needed to change the razor heads out . . . but who knew if he'd be around that long anyway. . . He closed that drawer smoothly as well.

The next drawer down was a few inches deeper than the previous two, and held a bottle of mouthwash with the same minty flavor as his at the apartment, some shampoo, some conditioner, some shower gel, some aftershave, some shaving cream, some cologne, and some deodorant, all of the same smells and brands of his at home without any apparent tampering with the packaging.

He wondered as he closed that final drawer if Joe meant for all these things which were identical to things Ryan would normally choose to use at the apartment to put the man at ease, to make him feel more at home here. . . But Ryan didn't feel that way at all. He felt nervous instead . . . after all, how did Joe know so much about him, and so much personal stuff for that matter? He was so secretive with people, that he knew Joe would have had to have someone following Ryan all along. But who? Quite frankly, he didn't even think he wanted to know . . . he moved on to the next pair of doors, the ones leading to the larger cabinet beneath the sink. It was full of about twenty rolls of double layered toilet paper, all wrapped in some nice paper packaging, alongside more burgundy towels. It was as if it was set up for a hotel guest. Ryan frowned and closed the doors to that cabinet, then shot up and turned around as he heard the door of the other room open, his whole body tensing up. Who was in here now? Was it Joe? He gritted his teeth at the thought. Had Joe planned to walk in on him when he was unprepared all along? Was that stuff about meeting Joe for dinner all just a fake front put up by Roderick?

He walked out, blinking, and found Roderick standing there. He sighed a little, relaxing a bit, and then frowned, "I thought you were leaving to get some rest. What do you want?" Roderick glared at him, clearly put out, "You may want to learn some manners. . ." he held up a package of bandages, a roll of gauze, and some rubbing alcohol, "Sent from Joe. For your knees and ankles and wrists. Don't let them get infected." He tossed it all on the bed, and walked out, locking the door again without another word, clearly irritated with the task Joe'd asked him to perform and Ryan's response to him performing it.

Ryan frowned. He found himself unable to feel any true guilt at his actions, but also unable to feel completely alright with his actions. He felt that given the situation, he had every reason to be on edge and to act the way he did, but he deep down wondered if Roderick really was that much better off. Hell, weren't they all being used by Joe? Just in different ways? He frowned and turned back to the bathroom, and walked inside. Opening the shower once more, he leaned in and turned on the faucet, letting the golden looking small faucet head that would be used for the bath sputter to life. He put his hand under it slowly, and felt the warm water. A shower did seem good right now. . . and he knew he had to play along to help Claire and Joey. . . and that involved getting ready for dinner. . . and that water was very tempting to his aching, tired muscles and bones. . . so he decided that he could give the shower a try.

Two hours later, after taking a long warm shower and treating his knees, ankles, and wrists and throwing the wrappers from the products he'd used to treat the afflicted areas into a golden painted trash can Ryan had found on the other side of the bed from the bedside table, Ryan wrapped a burgundy towel around his waist in order to walk around his room. He had been tempted to throw on some other clothes, but really, why bother? Whoever was working the cameras had already seen him naked anyway. He also had a 20 oz water bottle between his lips, after he'd checked the bottles over to make sure they hadn't been tampered with either, and was trying to do just what Joe had said, ensuring Claire and Joey's safety even more for the time being. Now he was walking around the bedroom, investigating everything in the room. He went to the oak dresser and searched its drawers. In the top drawer were many long sleeved dark blue, dark gray, light gray, burgundy, and black tight shirts. In the one below that, were black, dark gray, light gray, burgundy, and blue muscle T shirts. Then below that, was a drawer full of black lounge pants and workout pants. Below that, a drawer full of black gym style shorts. In the bottom drawer, were some black and blue flannel plaid boxers, black wife beaters, and black socks. All neatly placed, and all his size.

Next he looked in the wardrobe. Each shirt was made of a good silky material, and each had been freshly ironed. All the shoes had been either shined or simply taken good care of. He was both amazed and confused at these accoutrements. Because, regardless of what Joe may be trying to portray, he was still a victim. A prisoner. So why all these efforts to make him comfortable? It sent his mind reeling, and at that moment, another reeling sound caught his attention. He turned and frowned at the camera. . . one of the only things that reminded him that he was a prisoner here. . . well, that and the. . . shower rod. . . that was when Ryan got an idea. An idea he decided to act on. After all, if there were already a few things emphasizing his position as a prisoner, couldn't there be more? And wouldn't those, oddly enough, help settle his troubled mind? He decided to look.

Ryan in no time found that the bed, bed side table, dresser, and wardrobe were all bolted down to the floor as firmly as possible. Furthermore, both the body mirror and the facial mirror in his room were covered with a protective plastic layer, and both were screwed into place tightly at their bases. He couldn't move them if he tried. Not easily, anyway. Even the pole holding his clothes in his wardrobe was screwed in tightly. After these discoveries were made, he then went and tried to lift the window seat from the raised platform it was upon, only to find it bolted shut. He then tried to press on the latches of the windows in order to open the window only to find that they wouldn't open. This eased his mind all the more.

Ryan then headed into the bathroom, finding the towel rod and even the toilet paper rod to be firmly in place and unmovable for him. The cover for the back of the toilet was also firmly held down by a hinge on one side and padlock on the other. As for the mirror in the bathroom, it was the exact same as the ones in his bedroom, with a plastic layer on top of it. With each discovery he made that emphasized how trapped he was, the more comfortable Ryan grew in his new lodgings. Much like how he would have favored being punched by John rather than treated kindly by Marcus, he was in favor more of having a room he knew had been built with the idea that he was still a prisoner being held against his will in exchange for having a room he felt had been built with the idea that he was merely a guest staying with Carroll . . . After his investigation was completed, he headed to the bedside table to continue his investigation and to start the second bottle of water. The first drawer was empty now that the water bottles had left it. He decided to put the first aid stuff in that, thinking that maybe he'd need it later.

The bottom drawer in sharp contrast was full of books. Most contained works of Poe, but there was also The Gothic Sea and Poetry of a Killer, both his and Joe's books. These two final books left a cold pit in his stomach, as they glared up at him. Contained within the pages of Joe's own insane yet beautiful writing and his own recounting of catching Carroll were what Ryan considered the true reasons behind why he was here. Ryan catching Carroll had led Joe to focus on him, and Joe's own madness had caused him to overly obsess about Ryan, thus causing him to want Ryan to come to this house to this room.

Despite the coldness he felt towards the last two books in the drawer, since it was only around 2:00 PM and because of that he had time to kill before his meeting with Joe, Ryan decided to flip through the books after setting the alarm clock to go off when he needed it to in order to give himself plenty of time to prepare for dinner. Ryan wasn't particularly up for reading Poe or the other two novels, but he figured that Joe wouldn't have put them there if he hadn't wanted Ryan to read them, and currently, Ryan wanted to do anything he could to stay on Joe's good side until he met the madman. So, he sat on the window seat, refusing the much more comfortable bed, and putting his back against a cool window pane, began with Poe, ready to work through the works of Poe from the drawer and to end with Carroll's book and his own book.

At around 5:00 PM, he had finally reached Joe's book, having skipped around stories or poems that he didn't particularly care for in the Poe books. He bit his lip, and slowly opened The Gothic Sea. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. Maybe for something to be written within it that was threatening? But all he found was a small slip of paper, and written eloquently on it in the same style of calligraphy that Joe had used for his letter to Ryan which had called Ryan to come here was:

"Ryan, I understand that you are perhaps bored. I write this assuming of course that when you read this you will have only just arrived here. Do not worry. Things will begin happening very soon. But for now, please enjoy these books. Yours, Joe".

Ryan frowned a little at the note and was about to crumple the sheet of paper up and toss it into a corner, but then he thought better of it. He may hate Joe, but he needed the man to let down his guard by doing what he said. After all, wasn't that the reason Ryan had followed his orders up until that point? And if following Joe's orders was what he needed to do, maybe keeping the sheet of paper would help? He certainly didn't think it could hurt his chances of pleasing Joe. He frowned, and decided to use it as a bookmark, and propped himself up against the window pane a little bit straighter, reading as he drank the final bottle of water.

At 6:15, the alarm he'd set on the alarm clock went off, and he looked up at the clock's glaring red numbers. '_Only forty-five more minutes.' _he thought sadly. He sighed, and slid the slip of paper into the book to mark his place and took the stack of books to the bedside table to their drawer. Walking to his wardrobe, he opened it and gazed at all the clothes lying within. He decided on a dark burgundy button down and dress slacks. After putting on a black wife beater and boxers, he slipped into the clothes and some dress shoes, which as predicted, fit him perfectly in size. After dabbing on some cologne, making sure his teeth looked adequate, his breath smelled alright, and his hair was fixed appropriately, he went back into the bedroom with his hands shoved into his pockets and sat on the mattress of the bed, sinking a little into the memory foam material that it was made of and trying to ignore how good that material would feel when he needed to sleep on it later.

He glanced at the empty water bottles sitting on his bedside table, wondering vaguely what was the point in him drinking them . . . perhaps Joe would let him know. . . perhaps Joe wouldn't. Ryan didn't want to admit it, but anything Joe diverged to him would be Joe's own decision in the end . . . as the numbers on the alarm clock read 7:00 the door opened, and he turned, frowning at Roderick, blinking at the blonde who looked significantly better rested but who still had a frown on his face as he looked at Ryan. "Do I need these?" Roderick asked the threat evident in his voice as he held up the handcuffs and leading chain in the hand of his that wasn't resting on the door knob to the room. Ryan frowned at him, and shook his head, _"No sir. I'll be alright. I'll behave properly." _Roderick smirked, "That's the spirit. Now let's go." He turned and marched out. And Ryan frowned, following slowly. As soon as he was a good three feet from the door, Roderick moved behind him to lock the door to his room. Ryan paused, letting the man do that, knowing that Roderick would want to take the lead to take him to Joe, and once Roderick was in front of him again, the two continued on their way, Ryan's stomach twisting into knots of nervous energy.

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**Ending note: So, what do you all think? I personally had that room in mind from the very moment I decided that I wanted to write a fanfic for this show. Even before I decided on which plot I wanted to go with. I tried my hardest to make it all as vivid as possible to you all! I hope you enjoyed it, and please review! A constructive critique is always welcome, or even just a reason why you liked the chapter! Until my next post then, which I hope will be quite soon!~Trikkster**


	5. The Emissary of Darkness

Disclaimer: I do not own the show "The Following" or any of its original characters and plots. I also do not own any of the works of Edgar Allan Poe.

Dear Reader,

I would like to begin this post by giving a special thanks to **Transparent Existance. **I would also like to dedicate this chapter in honor of this amazing author. Via author notes on the chapters **Transparent Existance** posts and through private messaging, I can honestly say that this is an author with a life that can get crazy and hectic at times. Despite all that **Transparent Existance **is able to turn out amazing stories with beautiful heart-wrenching chapters that expertly weave in the emotions and experiences of the darker side of humanity in such a way that draws the reader into the story and allows the reader to fully experience the events of the story along with the characters. The stories are always a pleasure for me to read and review. Not only that, but **Transparent Existance** also is still able to find the time to review my own work with amazing reviews that encourage me as an author and offer me a beautifully written critique of the ups and downs of my own literary work. To hear from the expert mind of such a magnificent author is a true blessing for me, and I savor every word of every review I receive from this talented writer and weaver of words. So, **Transparent Existance, **I just want to thank you for all that you do to improve me as a writer, all of the wonderful discussions we have here on Fanfiction, and all of your amazing stories. And, this chapter, is for you. :D

I also would like to thank **quasificionalist **and **AnnonymousPerson **for their reviews. Your reviews encourage me to continue writing this story and to continue to post chapters. I love reviews because they can teach me so much about what to do to improve my own writing, and they mean the world to me.

For all of you who have only read this story up to this point and not reviewed, I want to thank you for sticking with it for so long, and would like to encourage you to write a review of your own. I want to know what this story may spark up in your mind, what you like about it, what you dislike about it, anything. Believe you me, your reviews will matter to me.

Now, on to the chapter. If you like Joe Carroll, you should enjoy this chapter. Because it is mainly Carroll centered. This chapter is shorter than the last that I posted, but it originally wasn't so. In reality, the original chapter that I was going to post all in this one post is currently 24 pages long and still isn't finished. So, out of respect for the limited time window my readers may have, I picked a place to half the chapter, leaving this chapter at only 14 pages. I've already started working on the next chapter, so it should be out to you by this weekend if everything goes according to plan.

Overall, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I will warn you, there are mentions and visuals of gore in it, but then again, I figure that a fanfic of the show "The Following" with a chapter centering mainly around Carroll should already be assumed to have such things within it. I hope you enjoy it, and the detail put into it, regardless. I can assure you, many hours went into producing this chapter for you. I have worked extremely hard to provide you with a good quality chapter, and hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love writing this story, and definitely won't be stopping any time soon! So, without further ado, sit back, read, and enjoy!

Trikkster

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The fire in the large stone fireplace of the room crackled and popped, its flames reaching up from the logs off of which its fingers fed in order to fuel its own power, draining the logs of what little life the cut up pieces of tree had left within themselves for the fire's own gain until said logs would finally crumble and turn into ash. The fire cared not for the life it stole and destroyed, as it danced its dangerous dance, its red and golden hues snaking about and twisting against the dark stone backdrop of the fireplace within which it resided. It licked the walls of its stone imprisonment, wanting nothing more than to break free and to cause the entire world to _burn_ to fuel its power, its own stability.

The open part of the fire place, giving the fire a clear view of the _delicious_ looking wood paneled room beyond, the office of one of the darkest men the fire could have ever danced in the presence of, seemed to mock the fire, which would like nothing more than to reach out and to begin its quest for world domination by eating up every inch of the room, then moving on to the rest of the house within which it resided. If not for the foot or so between the opening of the fireplace and the grate upon which the fire and its logs sat, it would no doubt succeed in its quest. And yet, it was trapped, like a human child in its high chair, upon the grate, unable to move further out. Confined . . . It hated being confined! The fire's greatest fear was to be confined. Confined, it was trapped, just waiting for someone to douse it with that horrible cold liquid, _water_, and end its life. Free, it could spread out freely, its fingers constantly stretching, its flames constantly growing higher and higher! Free, it could run from the deadly water as it crawled with inhuman speed across the ground! And as it spread out, it would eat up more and more ground, more and more living things, and only get greater and greater by draining them of their life source! Oh how the fire longed for that, to be able to grow so rapidly, to display its elegance for the whole world to fear and look upon with respect. But it could only crackle and pop, seeming to glare at the man who was able to walk so freely in the room beyond.

It had watched that man immensely, as he'd killed a darker haired man right before the fire's flaming eyes. The fire had watched as crimson drops that caught the fire's light and gleamed fell upon a hard translucent, white material that had been laid on the floor, as the main resident of the room, who the occupants referred to as "Joe" took the life of the darker man. The fire failed to understand such behavior. Why would humans kill humans? Their own kind? It made no sense to the burning flames. Yet, despite that confusion, the fire couldn't help but rise up and dance in awe of the beautiful destruction that the executioner displayed upon the man who was being executed. The fire could only hope that its destruction of the logs that fuelled it was just as powerful and beautiful to see each time. The fire, honestly, revered the man. The man who would gaze with deep brown eyes full of an internal, strong darkness, a darkness so strong that the fire was certain that no other human could ever hold within themselves, into the fire for hours it seemed, drinking some amber liquid that the fire supposed fueled the man. After all, "Joe" seemed to like it quite a bit.

Despite all of that reverence for the man, the fire knew that it would all the more _adore_ consuming the man upon release. The man who would poke and prod the logs that the fire sat upon, the man who would no doubt douse the fire should he find that it was becoming a bit too powerful and too much of a rival for his own dark energy. It was that man who forced the fire to be confined to its grate in its stone cell, forever tormenting and mocking the beautiful flames! Yes, the fire would enjoy itself as its flames licked the man's skin, made the man scream, and caused the man pain. It would consume the man in the most beautiful of ways! And in the end, it would make the man's powerful darkness the fire's very own, harnessed to fuel the great flaming beast so that it may continue on in its quest to devour the world. The fire made its best attempt at assuring the man of this, of taunting the man with threats and promises of what was to come as it crackled and popped some more. And yet, the man merely stood off to the side, out of the fire's line of sight, doing whatever it was he was doing as he faced the wood paneled wall of the room. It made the fire _furious _to think that the man ignored it so_._

Standing beside the fire place, facing a small mirror set in a beautiful ornate golden looking frame which hung against the dark burgundy colored wooden paneling of the room, Joe Carroll couldn't help but relate to the fire himself, as he finished inserting the last button of the black silky button down shirt he wore into its proper, beautifully embroidered slit. The man had just finished dressing for dinner, wearing gray slacks, black well shined shoes, and his black shirt which held a beautifully embroidered red J and C on its pocket area, and as he gazed at himself, even in the low light of the room, he knew he looked his best. After all, his guest deserved no less, did he not? He turned and gazed at the large grandfather clock beside him, its gears constantly turning, its pendulum swinging back and forth in its dark oak and glass frame.

He had requested that the pendulum be remade specifically for this clock to a long, brass rod with an arched blade at the end which was deathly sharp. He had made sure that it had been themed to be just like the one from Poe's own dark tale, "The Pit and the Pendulum". As he watched the pendulum swing back and forth, that deadly blade slicing through the air, as if searching for flesh to cut into, itching to feel crimson blood upon its metal edges, he couldn't help but recall the beautiful horror and terror felt by the man in "The Pit and the Pendulum". Reading such fear had been satisfying for the man's dark soul, and so he enjoyed gazing at the brass blade slicing through the air in his ornate clock, imagining it slicing through human flesh. He gazed at the pendulum, as if hypnotized with the beautifully deadly object as it swung back and forth in its case, for perhaps a minute more before moving his gaze up to the clock's face. The minute hand was right at 11, and the hour hand was almost at the 7. Both caused his dark, charming smile to cross over his lips. He'd used a copy of that smile many a time to manipulate followers, victims, his fellow colleagues, and even members of the justice system, trying to bend them to his will and to perform the duties he requested of them. But now, it was a real smile, a true look of happiness upon his face. "It won't be much longer now," he whispered, excitement and a bit of nervousness in his voice. He'd been waiting for, _longing_ for what was about to happen, for so long. It was the beginning of the new part of the intricate, beautiful story he was weaving together. It was the most important part, the reason he'd pulled the entire story together up to this point. Without the next part, the entirety of what had come before was pointless, insignificant, and worthless to him. But with this next part, _oh_, everything would fall into place, and his masterpiece would be brought to its _glorious _completion.

He turned and gazed at the table set before the fire, right beside the edge of the ornate burgundy rug upon which sat his dark brown leather couch and its two dark burgundy colored end tables, one with The Gothic Sea upon it, the other with The Poetry of a Killer. The two books that had gone hand in hand to create this wonderful story's prequel, with words woven by two incredibly different but shockingly similar hands residing within their pale pages, written by two very opposite but very alike men. Two extremely brilliant minds. Joe smiled calmly, walking over to the book that was closest to him, and picked it up, gazing at his own eyes that gazed up from the glossy cover. He gazed at the white "The Poetry of" and the blood red "Killer" which took up the top half of the cover. He ran his fingers over the raised letters of the cover, then turned and gazed down at the name printed in stark white along the bottom of the sheet. "Ryan Hardy", the name read. Joe ran his fingers over that as well. The name of the one man who probably understood Joe the best out of every other human on the face of the planet. Ryan was without a doubt Joe's very best adversary. The only man who Joe truly respected.

Joe remembered well the talks that they'd had that one night concerning the killings. He felt that he and Ryan had connected on such a level, that it had been surprising to him that Ryan hadn't immediately known that it was Joe creating the art that Ryan considered crime scenes. He had vaguely wondered as he'd lain awake that night in bed beside Claire if Ryan in fact had known all along and was merely allowing Joe to continue to create more art and feed his own soul, out of some form of respect for Joe. Perhaps he had seen the genius behind the killings? Such thoughts had run through Joe's mind, and still continued to run through the serial killer's mind. Regardless of the reason behind the apparent ignorance, it was clear to Joe that if it weren't for Ryan, Joe couldn't have kept killing like he had been able to do before Ryan finally put into place that last piece of the puzzle and had stopped Joe from killing Sarah in her sorority house. Joe chuckled a little at the memory. After all, he had exacted a pretty good dose of revenge upon Ryan as the man had dared to stop his masterpiece from taking flight. He couldn't help but smile as he remembered the way his knife had sank deep into Ryan's chest, as the man's blue eyes had widened in pain and fear as the steel had cut into him, diving into his heart. Joe had eaten up that pain, had reveled in it. That sting of betrayal that had crossed Ryan's eyes next had been absolutely wonderful. A beautiful, tragic look of anger mixed with fear and sadness.

Joe blinked, and returned his attention to the book in his hands. He moved a palm to lay flat on top of the book, and closed his eyes, breathing out a deep sigh. He'd read the pages of the book so many times while he'd been imprisoned, had swam in their words for so many hours. Had dreamed of the truths Ryan had been able to grasp about him and weave into beautiful sentences, great paragraphs, and magnificent chapters. It had only reassured him that Ryan was to be the hero of this story, the sequel to the story woven within the pages of Hardy's book. He gave a sigh of relaxation and put the book down on the end table once more, gentle with it as if it were a newborn baby. It had been a memoir of Ryan's first steps into the true darkness that surrounded Joe, his first encounter with the darkness that the other man resided in and grew from. And now, Ryan would take even more steps into that darkness, as Joe held his hand and guided him gently down the paths upon which Carroll loved to travel the most, the emissary of darkness leading a man who hadn't even truly tasted the dark yet, a pitiful child clinging to the light he perceived to be within his own darkening soul. Joe would have to wean him off of that light, would have to force him to accept the darkness within his being. Joe smiled calmly, reaching down and turning the book over for a moment, gazing at Ryan's face in its black and white photograph on the back cover, _"You will no doubt be my greatest pupil of darkness, Ryan." _Turning, he flipped the book back over and walked casually towards the larger table set before the fire.

The table was of a deep, dark burgundy stained wood, smoothed down and glossed over. A follower, Thomas, had made it, having been a carpenter who had just happened to experiment with his tools one night on his wife who had always verbally abused him. Joe smiled calmly as he thought of what Thomas had accomplished, what that amateur had been able to do. The man had doused her with paint thinner from behind as she'd cooked at the stove in their small shabby kitchen, and as she'd writhed and screamed on the floor as the chemicals had burned her, he'd knelt down, and had slammed down upon her head a cat's paw ripping chisel, knocking her out.

While talking to Joe as the serial killer had sat on the other side of the reinforced glass at the prison where Joe was being held prior to his first escape, the man had described how he'd dragged her body back to his workshop in the shed behind their small home, how he had chained her to the work table in there, and once she'd woken up, groaning in pain, how he'd gone to work on her, engraving rude words upon her, many of which she'd hurled viciously at him in their abusive relationship. Once he had been done carving them out upon her once pale, beautifully smooth skin which was quickly turned into a skin marred with deep cuts and rivers of beautiful crimson blood, he'd climbed on top of her, and had slammed his regular sculpting chisels into her chest repeatedly, aiming carefully to avoid the heart, which he then carved out of her chest, claiming that it never fit within her as he sneered at her tortured body. After tossing that to the floor, he'd then used a hand saw to carve up her mangled body into pieces, which he then would put under the floorboards of his home, using his carpentry skills to properly hide them. The heart he then burned, until it was nothing more than ashes. Thomas liked to think that her soul had felt that sort of fiery torment from that point on, and that it would continue to feel that torment until the end of days. Overall, it was a beautiful, yet crude story for Joe to hear from the man, who surprisingly, had never gotten caught for the murder of his poor wife Maria Ross.

Joe figured that the reason behind Thomas being able to escape from the law's punishments for his crime was more or less created out of a happy coincidence surrounding the event. There was, after all, a string of murders going on in that man's town, and so the morning after Maria's murder, he planted one of her favorite necklaces in a cabinet that he then delivered to one young gentleman's home. The gentleman in question's name had been Ron Stewart. Thomas had then gone to the police, pleading with them to find his wife. He had said that he feared that Ron may have taken her from his home while he had been working late in his workshop. He had cleverly already broken into his own home the same way he described to the police, by smashing in a large living room window and leaving dirt tracks all the way from the living room straight into the now spotless kitchen. So, the police had gone to Ron's home, and finding the necklace, had confirmed that the blood on it was in fact Maria's. Upon finding that Ron was in fact incredibly OCD the investigators decided that it was in fact very likely that he would have taken the time to clean up the kitchen after knocking Maria out in order to kidnap her. The police determined that Ron would have been able to do so due to the fact that because Thomas often worked late in his shed, Ron would have had plenty of time to clean. Furthermore, they'd found that he often bought things from Thomas, giving him many opportunities to go to Thomas's house and to observe how Maria and Thomas went about their days, which would provide him with a good opportunity to plan the abduction. It also helped that Maria was roughly in the same age range as the other girls who had been murdered. And, as it turned out, Ron had many souvenirs from the other women as well, having been the original killer all along for that series of murders. Because of these circumstances, the police had seen no reason to not suspect the man of murdering the woman.

They'd demanded to know the whereabouts of Maria, but the man had protested, stating that he had no idea what they were talking about because he had never murdered Maria. The police had then taken him, and as far as Thomas knew, had managed to force a false confession out of him concerning Maria, and honest confessions concerning the other girls. Ron was later put on trial, convinced that he had in fact killed Thomas's wife Maria in the worst way possible, thoroughly mutilating and sexually assaulting her repeatedly, and had burned her body until it was ashes just as he had done the other girls' remains, then had driven to a ravine nearby and tossed them into the wind. In short, a perfect story to say to the court and to send Ron Stewart to prison for life, because the state of Maine would not allow for the death penalty. In other words, Thomas had gotten extremely lucky, and had walked away from that courtroom a free man.

Thomas had continued his work as a carpenter after the trial, and after Joe's capture, had been obsessed with going to visit with Joe in prison to speak with him. Joe had then offered up a way to contact Roderick to Thomas, who had jumped at the opportunity to become a follower of Carroll. Once he'd met Roderick, he'd gone to one of the many killing camps which had been set up for the cult. In the camp he was tortured and taught the brutality of man along with other "candidates". After months of training, Thomas had walked away from the camp as a loyal follower. When Joe had asked for him to design the table and chairs which Joe now saw before him, Thomas had been ecstatic, and had put his very best artistry into the pieces of furniture.

The legs of the table were beautiful carved, with vines and flowers and birds etched into their sides and the legs, along with the rest of the pieces of the furniture, were all well rounded and sanded down. The chair backs were of a Sheaf style and arched beautifully away from where the seated person would reside, as did the arm rests and legs. The curves of such structures only added an extra amount of elegance to the pieces of furniture. The chairs also held a luscious burgundy velvet cushion in their seats. But one of the most important things about the entire set was what was at the bottom of the legs of the table and one of the chairs, the one closest to the door of the room.

Joe smiled down at metal braces latched around the bottoms of the legs of the table and chair. Leaning down, he fingered one brace that was around the leg of the table that was closest to him. It was a nice firm set of four metal steel pieces, all forming a square that fit around the leg's base perfectly. Three of the pieces which formed straight sides that hugged the leg and held it tight remained stable in their positions at all times, forming a firm brace around three sides of the leg. The other side of each brace had a lever system that, if one pulled the small steel handle that came off from that side downward, they would then release the metal plate that made up that final fourth side of the square shaped brace, allowing for the brace to release the leg. When that side was latched into place, it was extremely hard to move the table, and impossible without working with the table for a long time. When each brace for the table's legs was released, the table was as easy to move as any normal table. The braces were all bolted down to the wooden floor of the room in front of the fire via long slender screws driven through holes set in the braces and into the floor.

Joe smiled warmly and stood up, and gazed at the chair that was nearest the door. Reaching down, he fingered the long slender chains akin to those used for handcuffs which led to the left leather wrist cuff that was chained to the left armrest of the chair. The chain was a bit longer than the chains used for regular handcuffs, and was attached to a metal loop set in a steel metal plate that had been screwed tightly to the armrest of the chair. He picked up the leather wrist cuff, the cuff being of a light tan color, and rubbed the soft suede inside of the cuff. The cuff was designed to restrain, but to also allow for movement of the wearer while keeping the wearer's wrists safer than they would have been with regular hand cuffs. A gentle training aid to help the wearer learn to control themselves in the situation they currently found themselves in. He turned and smiled at the other identical cuff on the other armrest of the chair. Yes, everything was perfectly made to his exact specifications. He'd have to be sure to thank them once again for all of their hard work. By them he meant Thomas and the metal working follower he'd also assigned to this task. He smiled warmly, as he thought of Thomas and Jim, and their reactions when they found out just who Joe had the entire dining set in mind for.

_Thomas leaned back, sighing with happiness, seeming to not mind the smudge of wood polish on his left cheek, and slapped a slightly dirtied rag back over his right shoulder, wearing a long beige, dirtied jumpsuit and work boots. The man had been working night and day for five days straight with minimal sleep to get the rush job done for Joe, and at last, he was ready to present it to the man he worshipped so very much. He smiled and turned to Joe, as Jim polished the last of the braces for the table and chair. The other man who had dirty blonde hair cut short as opposed to Thomas's own dark brown ponytail that pulled his hair away from his murky brown eyes, turned and smiled a tired smile at Joe as well as the man stood before the two workers in their identical jumpsuits, his hands folded behind his back, wearing a nice white button down and dark blue sweater vest and his favorite khakis and shined brown shoes._

"_Well, sir, what do you think of it?" Thomas said with a grin. Joe smiled, walking forward and touching lightly the dried wooden structure of the table, running his fingers along the design of one of the legs, "Very intricate. . ." he turned to the metal brace that Jim held out, the hazel eyed man's eyes gleaming in triumph as he proudly held the brace out to Joe. Joe smiled at him, and Jim grinned even wider, flashing his pearly white teeth at Joe as nothing less than the utmost happiness and joy flooded through him at the thought of pleasing the man he considered to be a father. After all, the vacancy left after he'd shot his own drunken, abusive father in the head one night when he was eight had needed filling in for a long time, and Joe had been the perfect candidate. Joe took the brace, and began to move his fingers slowly over it, gazing at the well worked metal. He seemed to isolate himself from the men before him as he inspected the piece of hardware, moving the movable side in and out, testing it before smiling warmly, "And very efficient." _

_He turned and flashed his winning smile at Thomas and Jim once more, and put a hand on both of their outside shoulders, smiling at them, having put the brace down on the work table nearby that held all eight of the braces, plus the leather cuffs, their chains, and their metal plates, all of which had been made by Jim. His grin grew a bit more as he felt them literally tremble with excitement beneath his hands. He adored that sense of control over them, that reverence, that enthusiasm. That knowledge that if he ordered them to kill the other and then kill themselves, they'd fight tooth and nail against the one they had formerly considered their close friend in order to be able to carry out the orders of their master. He smiled as he savored that knowledge, gazing into the two pairs of completely loyal and submissive eyes._

"_You boys have really outdone yourselves," he murmured. The look in Jim's eyes told Joe that the man was just barely refraining from collapsing in relief and joy at pleasing the serial killer. Thomas beamed, puffing out his chest in pride. "There's still more to come, sir," the brunette said brightly, and Joe smiled warmly at him and patted him on the cheek a little. Thomas stood a bit straighter and grinned a bit more at that show of affection, as Joe slurred in his deep, charming voice, "I know, Thomas. And I look forward to that as well." After smiling warmly at Jim, the serial killer turned and walked off, towards the door of the shop area, "But for now, I want the table and chairs to be moved to my office immediately. . ." he turned and locked eyes with the two, all business, "Understood?" "Of course sir," Jim said immediately, smiling at him brightly, "We'll have it in there right away!" Joe chuckled warmly at the man, "I'm sure you will." The two men watched as Joe rested a hand on the knob of the door leading from the workshop that was kept separate from the main safe house out in the back, a nice white paneled and brick house that had two stories, the first being the shop, the second being where Jim and Thomas slept and ate._

_Suddenly, just as Joe was about to walk over the threshold and into the yard to head back to the main house, Thomas called out, "And good luck with Claire!", believing that Joe was going to use the set for her, as Joe had originally said to them when he'd made the order for them to create the pieces of furniture. Joe paused and turned to the two men, frowning, "Actually . . ." he quirked his lips into a sly grin, "There's been a change in plans. Someone else will be dining with me at that table." Joe had smiled at that moment like a cat that had his favorite mouse just almost in his grasp. He'd sent the letter off with Molly that morning. Ryan would soon be in his clutches. He couldn't hide his excitement for much longer._

_Thomas frowned, his brow creased in confusion at Joe's words, "Who, sir?" Joe smiled even more at the two men, flashing them with his slightly yellowed toothed smile, "A very special guest of mine: Ryan Hardy." The two men tensed. Jim gritted his teeth and turned to glare at the braces on the table as if they were Ryan, fury at the man who had turned Joe in and stopped the man from killing going out from him to the braces he'd unknowingly made to accommodate the former agent. Thomas set his jaw firmly, and took a step forward, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't understand." Joe smiled, "Oh believe you me, you soon will understand. . ." he walked forward, and took Jim's chin in his hand and moved the follower's head around so that he smiled calmly into Jim's eyes. The anger and resentment immediately left the hazel eyes, and only confusion merged with adoration and a silent pleading for a better understanding remained. Joe chuckled. Soon, Ryan would look at him in the same way, the killer just knew it. He stroked Jim's chin gently, and murmured, "Just know that for now, this is what I need of you, and I'm very proud of you." _

_Jim smiled weakly, relaxing a little, pure adoration taking over much of his gaze, his shoulders sagging in relief, "Thank you, sir." Joe smiled, "You never disappoint me. . ." he turned and smiled at Thomas as his hand on Jim's chin moved up to stroke through the man's blonde hair, and placed a warm hand on Thomas's shoulder, his fingers stroking the man's shoulder through the jumpsuit. He felt Thomas relax under his hand, sighing a little and smiling gratefully, as Joe continued, "Neither of you ever disappoint me," he assured the two of them gently. Jim sighed and closed his eyes, moving his head up to rest against Joe's hand, finding comfort in the man's touch, as Thomas smiled at the serial killer all the more, "Any reason you may have is good enough for me, sir. I trust you." He turned to Jim who looked at him as Joe moved his hands down away from both of the two men. Jim smiled and nodded, "Same here." Joe smiled, nodded, and turning, walked out of the workshop._

Joe smiled down at the leather cuffs a bit longer, continuing to stroke the sides of the one he held in his hand for one moment longer, and then moved his gaze to what sat upon the table. Upon it sat beautiful china plates which had been perfectly cleaned. They were painted black with gold on the rims. Also on the table sat red burgundy cloth napkins, carefully folded and beneath two sets of golden knives, spoons, and forks. He walked over, and smiled at the nice engravings upon them, beautiful vines with lotus flowers sprouting from the vines in random intervals. They had been family heirlooms to someone in his cult. He wasn't entirely sure whose they'd originally been in the cult. He'd just asked Roderick to find some and the man had. There was also a black wrought iron candelabrum in the center of the table, with three long slender candles that looked like the color of gold rising up from it, their flames flickering in the air. Those candles and the fireplace provided the only light in the large room. The rest of the room Joe had given over to the darkness.

Joe smiled and walked to the fire as the flames became lower, and taking the nearby black wrought iron fire poker from a stand holding many fireplace tools, he leaned in and stoked the logs of the flames, watching as embers flared and the fire crackled as a log was shoved a little to the side. He watched as the flames seemed to be shoved to the side as well by his actions and out of the intricate dance routine that they had been performing prior to the interruption he'd created, before quickly returning to the same dance once more. He smiled a genuine smile at them. He'd always loved fire. In a way, he felt that he related to fire. As the logs within the fire fed the flames and made the fire itself all the more powerful, he had killed many girls, and they'd made him feel stronger. He chuckled. The fire had also helped him many a time in the killings . . . he turned and reaching for a knife that was at the seat with the chains, picked it up, turned, and put it into long black tongs that he got from the set of fire tools as he put the poker back into its stand.

Breathing out gently, Joe slowly put the knife in the fire, and smiled, watching as the flames licked the metal, as if savoring the cool taste of the blade, a new sensation in contrast to the stone walls around them or the wooden logs below them. He smirked, feeling as though the fire savored the metal he offered to it, and knew that if given the time, the fire would like nothing more than to melt it and have it drip from the fire as if it were the fire's golden saliva, to land on the floor of the fireplace in gold puddles. Maybe he would let the fire do just that one day. But not tonight. He waited a few minutes, smiling, and then brought the knife back out of the fire before the metal was permanently melted or marred, and gazed at the heated metal, shining in the fire light as the light flickered off of it as the flames danced. As he held the tongs tightly in his hand, gazing at the hot metal knife, he reached over slowly and gripped a wine glass from the opposite side of the table that had been filled with water and brought it to himself, taking a sip and gazing at the heated golden knife, as his mind took him back to another time when he'd seen a knife that hot. . .

_Joe took a deep swig of his bottle of scotch, gazing at the knife held firmly in the fireplace's tongs, freshly heated by the roaring fire before him. Reaching up with a heavily leather gloved hand he slid the red hot metal out of the tongs, and turning, smiled as he walked over to the long dark oak dining room table set in the center of the living room of his small townhouse. Claire was gone with Joey at a friend's house for the evening, the two of them and the friend and her daughter sleeping there overnight before heading to Disneyworld the next day down in Florida. It was a long drive down to Florida, and Joey was too young to really appreciate Disneyworld, but the friend and her older daughter were going, and so the other woman had offered for Claire to come as well, seeing as Claire had known the other woman for a long time and they didn't hardly get to hang out anymore, and Claire did have some vacation time. Claire had been iffy about going though, and at first had refused. Joe had encouraged her greatly to go however, assuring her that it would be fun and that she deserved to have fun, what with how hard she'd been working with grad students compiling their dissertations lately._

_She at that point had not had any more dissertations to work with students on, while Joe still had some students to help with theirs, so he'd assured her that he'd head on down to Florida on a flight as soon as he was done with the dissertations with which he was helping. He had assured her that he'd be there in two days' time which would leave plenty of time for him and Claire to enjoy their time together with Joey in Disneyworld, since Claire's friend was going to be in Florida for the whole week. Claire had consented, and left that afternoon to go to the friend's house. And so, since Claire was with her friend, he'd chosen to bring his own friend home. _

_Anna Porter, a girl in his graduate course on American Poetry, stared fearfully at him, terror written on her face, stripped down to just her underwear, handcuffs binding her arms and legs to the legs of the table, "M-Mr. Carroll?! What are you doing to me?! What . . . what have you done to me?!" Joe smiled and walked over, setting the scotch bottle gently on the plastic mat he'd put on the floor. After all, he didn't want her precious blood staining the carpet, now did he? "Anna, I'm glad you're up," he murmured, moving to stand beside the table, smiling a genuine smile at her as he gazed into her frightened green eyes, drinking in her fear as she began to twist and writhe on the table, tears running down her cheeks, panting, her chest throbbing with each heartbeat, as her fear escalated. "Wh-what are you gonna do to me?!" she gasped. Joe smiled. The two of them had met at a lovely local pub that evening to speak about her dissertation. He'd slipped a date rape drug that he'd gotten from some kid on the street who had been selling them into her drink, and then when he'd gotten her alone out in the alley behind the establishment, he had guided the dazed girl into a cab and had taken her to his home._

_He'd never taken any of his future masterpieces to his home, but this was only his third kill so he figured he wasn't really breaking a tradition by taking one of the girls to his home this one time, and tonight was a night of firsts anyway, so it seemed to be alright to bring one of the girls here for a change. He smiled at her, "I'm going to create art, in a new style. You see, for as long as I can remember, knives have been heated to cut through harder foods easier. So I figured, because it can be rather hard to cut through flesh with a cold knife, that if it would work the same with a person, in that a hot knife would make a person more malleable, why not try it?" She stared at him, her hazel eyes wide with horror and shock, the color leaving her face, "Y-you're the one . . . the one who's been killing all of those girls, aren't you?!"_

_He smiled calmly at her, his eyes warm yet pitiless, "No, no, my dear. Not 'killing'. Never 'killing' . . . you see, I quite hate that word. So crude, so . . . inadequate for the true magnificence I have done. You see, rather than killing people, as you so crudely and rudely claim, I have instead been making art out of beauty, Miss Porter. . . you will be my third piece. . ." She began to struggle, screaming, her panic rising. He smiled, drinking in her terror, savoring it as if it were the most exquisite treat he'd ever tasted. He felt his body rush with adrenaline and excitement, and closed his eyes for just a moment, taking in a deep ragged breath as pleasure rolled over him in waves, hearing her screams reverberate throughout the house. With his first kill, he'd killed the girl in her own apartment, and had had to stifle her beautiful screams. With the next kill, he'd chosen an old warehouse outside of town. It had been alright, but not what he craved and wanted. He hadn't owned the house, and so it all just felt wrong. But now, now that he could kill a girl in his own home, to hear her beautiful screams against his own walls, now that was GLORIOUS. It filled him with the greatest satisfaction and the greatest pleasure._

_He smiled and opened his eyes slowly, smiling a sadistic, content smile at the girl who continued to writhe and shriek, gazing with fear at the man as he moved towards the table more. It amused him that she tried to squirm away from him as he got closer, as if that would save her. As if she could get away . . . a quirky, amused grin came upon his face. She panicked as he leaned over the table and put a knee on the tabletop, grunting, ready to climb onto it and begin his artwork. She shrieked, and twisted her head back, wailing at the top of her lungs, eyes shut tight, "NOOOOOOOO! NO YOU CAN'T DO THIS! DR. CARROLL, PLEASE!" he chuckled, shaking his head, straddling her as he climbed fully onto the table, facing her, smiling as he put both of his knees on either side of her hips. She panted and paused, gazing fearfully at him, tears streaming down her face, "Please?" Joe chuckled, a dark chuckle, and shook his head, and the girl whimpered, gazing in terror into the eyes of her killer, seeing only pure darkness within him. How could she have been so easily fooled, she had to wonder? In just a few short hours, the kind, harmless, charming professor had turned into a cruel, sick, sadistic emissary of darkness._

"_Now, now, Anna don't be difficult," he slurred, smiling at her, gazing at her face before turning to her stomach and smoothing his hand over an area set to the right and up a few inches from her belly button, "This'll maybe help me with my future kills, after all. Killing you with a hot knife. You should be honored." He turned and grinned at his silver knife in his gloved hand, his own heart racing in excitement now as he gazed at the beautiful friend, the beautiful metal paintbrush that had helped him create so much beauty thus far, that was still red hot from the fire. He smirked, clenching his gloved hand around the metal tighter, ignoring her screams and wails of protest, and jerked his hand forward, eyes closing tightly, as they always did, savoring the moment and the feeling he felt as the knife met its target._

_Anna arched as the knife sank cleanly into her, burning the skin around the entry spot, her eyes wide, screaming her loudest scream, one that was long, beautiful, and high pitched, eyes seeming to bulge from her head, her mouth open wide in her wail. Joe smiled, a shuddering breath of pure happiness moving through his trembling lips, his tingling ears taking in the sound of that scream, which was perhaps the loudest he'd ever heard, "Yes, yes, perfect. . ." He opened his eyes, bent down over her body, and gazed at the knife that was buried within her, some crimson blood flowing down around the entry wound that was now reddened by the heat of the knife. _

_He twisted the knife just a bit, ripping another scream from her as it shredded through more of her innards. He watched as more blood flowed over the knife and glove as he ripped more of her skin, and he smiled calmly. He slowly slid the knife out, gazing at the deep hot blood coating the beautiful silver. Moving the knife up, he closed his eyes, and ran his tongue gently over the warm surface, drinking in her blood, savoring the taste of warm life's blood on his taste buds. _

_Seeing the gothic man above her, Anna broke down completely, tears rolling down her face, her panic leaving her so that she only was an exhausted, tired woman trembling beneath him, "P-p-p-p-please. . . n-n-n-no more. . ." Joe turned to her, and smiled calmly at her before he murmured gently to her, "And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted . . ." he turned and smiled, moving the knife to a new fresh place, just below her rib cage. Right near her diaphragm . . . he plunged the knife into her, watching now as it entered, and she shrieked, arching, tears streaming down her beautiful face as he finished the quote, "Nevermore."_

A knock at the door brought Joe out of his memory, and he frowned, turning to the dark door that wouldn't open unless he asked for whoever was outside to come in. He slowly turned, and rested the now cooled knife down on the cloth napkin once again before carefully putting the tongs into place on their stand as he made his way to sit on the couch, taking in a deep breath and letting it out as he leaned against the back of the furniture, taking a sip of his water and gazing into the fire place's flames as they danced. He could dwell on his memories of past kills for days on end it seemed, reveling in them, drowning in the pleasure he'd felt with each one. In fact, he'd done that for many days on end while in prison. But now, he had to focus on the plan at hand instead. He had to focus on the long journey that lay before him. Much like those girls, this was yet another masterpiece that he had set before himself to create. And with this masterpiece everything he did mattered, because everything played a part in the final project that would be produced from the journey.

He knew what he had to do, what he wanted to do. And he knew that with Claire as leverage, along with Joey, he'd be able to accomplish it. The only question was how much Ryan Hardy would try to resist what Joe had planned. There was no question of his final and total submission to Joe's control, because Joe was sure that there would be no escaping what he had planned. He'd carefully planned everything that would make Ryan come to him and that would get Ryan under his control, whether Ryan wanted to be under his control or not.

Roderick had been without a doubt surprised when Joe had said that he wanted Ryan only minutes after Roderick had announced that Claire had arrived at the house, and to say the least, Roderick had gotten rather angry when Joe had said that he wanted the man to retrieve Ryan for him. Of course, that fool Roderick, despite his education, was still so naïve and mediocre compared to Joe's own brilliant mind, that Joe couldn't expect for him to be able to understand what Joe's true motives were. Joe snorted a little.

The man honestly had believed that Joe had wanted to rekindle Claire's love for the man and for him and Claire and Joey to ultimately become a family again while the cult went about killing people. It offended Joe that the man could possibly be so naïve. Joe knew all too well that any love Claire might have felt for Joe had been greatly diminished when Joe had been revealed as the killer behind all of those girls' deaths. And it was clear to him since her visit to him in jail after that buffoon Jordie had killed those sorority girls and after Joey had been taken by Emma that any other love that had remained for him after the trial had been eroded away through the woman's relationship with Ryan and simply by the passing of time after her relationship with the former agent had ended. At that thought, Joe clenched his hand harder around the glass a little, gritting his teeth, fresh hot anger sparking in his eyes. Anger at Claire for abandoning him, anger at Ryan for stealing her away. . . he sighed, and lessened his grip, taking back control of himself as he lifted the glass of water to his lips once more and closing his eyes. No matter, no matter. That was all over and done with now. The point was, Joe wasn't focused on his ex-wife anymore. No, she was merely the bait for a much larger trap.

After all, his new focus was on Ryan, the ultimate challenge for Joe. The challenge that fueled Joe with adrenaline and a firm resolve to accomplish his goals which he had set for himself regarding Ryan. It was all like deep sea fishing in a way: Joey had been like a small piece of bait which had gotten Claire who was like a larger bait fish, which had gotten Joe what he truly wanted: Ryan Hardy. And now, Ryan was here, ready for Joe to break down and to control and to bring to his full potential. Oh yes, whether Ryan understood it or not, Joe was going to do him the largest favor of his life. He was going to bring Ryan into the full magnificence that the other man was destined to become. There was another knock on the door, and Joe frowned, turning his head slowly to the door. And took another sip of his water, smiling calmly at the wooden entry way, "_Come in," _he murmured.

Silently the door opened, and Joe stood, smiling warmly at Roderick as the blonde haired sheriff walked in. Slowly, with hesitant footsteps, Ryan entered the room, and Joe's smile widened, his eyes lighting up all the more as they moved over the other man, studying him. Joe had hoped that Ryan would pick a burgundy shirt. To Joe, the color red really suited Ryan. Ryan had his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes downcast, and as he walked in, he kept his eyes on the floor for a moment longer before turning them to frown coldly into Joe's own eyes. Joe smiled, seeing the dark anger lying in Ryan's eyes. It was nothing like Joe's own darkness. Joe's own darkness flowed freely through the man's body and seemed to emit from him in waves as a dark aura. Ryan's had been caged in long ago and starved, and now only slowly ebbed into his gaze when the man was angry or frustrated. But still, it was there. And Joe had the key to unlock it, to plunge Ryan into the darkness, to hold the other man there and watch as the darkness changed him into what he was destined to become. It would be an amazing and wonderful metamorphosis. He watched as Ryan flitted his eyes over the rest of the room, taking in the pictures and artwork on the walls and the vases and statues set on columns set near the walls, the desk on the other side of the room in front of a large window between two bookshelves, the fireplace, the couch, the rug, the grandfather clock, the mirror, the table and chairs, a burgundy door leading off from another corner of the room between the clock and the mirror to who knew where, and finally. . . Joe.

Ryan gritted his teeth and set his jaw hard as he watched the man look over him, that same smile the man was so used to sporting on his lips. Ryan knew that it was that smile that had charmed so many people and that had given them comfort. He remembered when he himself had even found comfort in that smile years ago. But now that smile offered no comfort. In fact, Ryan wanted to walk up to Joe and beat that smile off of his face, to cause the man as much pain as he possibly could. But instead he stood still, his eyes cold as he watched Joe turn and rest the glass of water beside a book on his end table. Ryan felt a cold feeling in his gut as he noted that it was The Poetry of a Killer. He clenched his fists harder, as Joe turned, and smiled at him warmly, walking over until he was merely a yard from Ryan. Ryan gritted his teeth, and darted his eyes to the ground again. He wanted to move back, to get away from the man who was now so much closer to him, but he knew that he couldn't. He needed to stand still. He knew that Joe intended him to stay still for him, after all, and he needed to keep the man as satisfied as possible . . . for now . . . for Claire and Joey. Then Joe's voice slurred through the air like a winding snake, _"Hello, Ryan. I've been waiting for you." _


	6. Dinner with a Killer

Dearest Reader,

This is perhaps the longest chapter I've ever written, but nonetheless I am extremely pleased with it. I want to thank everyone for keeping up with this story and I'd like to encourage more reviews.

I hope that you enjoy this chapter, but let it be known that I changed something that was addressed in the pilot of the show: Joe's first attempt to murder Sarah Fuller. I don't think the change should upset many fans, but I just felt I should warn you before reading.

This chapter is rather intense, but I hope you enjoy it very much! Again, thanks to all of my reviewers, especially **Transparent Existance**, for giving me such good feedback!

As a Disclaimer, I would like to say that I do not own the original plot or characters of "The Following". I also do not own the works of Edgar Allan Poe or Nathaniel Hawthorne. I just love their work. This is not being made for profit.

Trikkster

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"_Hello, Ryan. I've been waiting for you," _Joe slurred. Ryan frowned at Joe, and gritted his teeth as the man let a slow smile cross his face. It was that same condescending smile that he'd seen cross Joe's face so many times while the man had been locked away. That smile that let the other person know that while Joe may claim that he cares about them, secretly Joe felt that he was superior and they were inferior. And now he was smiling that smile at Ryan. Well, two could play at the insult game. Ryan set his jaw firmly and glowered at Joe, determined not to answer the man. Joe frowned, and tilted his head to the side as if perplexed, that same haunting smile on his face, and walked over as calm as possible, "_My, my Ryan, is something wrong? Or are you just tired? I understand that you had a long trip to make to get here . . . and I understand that beds are much more comfortable to sleep on than car seats. . . hopefully you'll catch up on your sleep tonight. What do you think?" _he stopped to stand before Ryan, a mere foot away, and smiled, showing his teeth, tilting his head to the other side, as if waiting for an answer.

Ryan forced his features to remain neutral, and just continued to glare at Joe, not willing to cave in and give the man what he wanted. It was obvious that Joe wanted him to respond, to act as if nothing was wrong. He refused to give that to the man . . . refused to play his sick, mocking game. Roderick seemed to have a different view of the situation,and nudged Ryan in the shoulder, hissing, "_Answer him!" _

Joe's eyes narrowed and he turned, glaring coldly at Roderick, "Quiet, Roderick. Ryan and I are talking." Ryan widened his eyes and took a step back a little at the iciness of that tone, and he glanced at Roderick, who stared at Joe as if he'd just been slapped. Joe suddenly smiled slyly at Roderick, _"It's rude to just cut into a conversation, Roderick." _He turned to Ryan, and frowned, _"Although this seems to be hardly a conversation. Ryan, after all, is remaining far too quiet." _Ryan just frowned at him, tilting his own head, his icy blue eyes glaring at Joe with silent accusation. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest, _"Gee, I wonder why, Joe," _he snarled with venom in his voice. Joe didn't retaliate with hostility though as Ryan anticipated and instead frowned, and after crossing his arms, lifted one hand up to stroke his chin as if deep in thought, _"My, my, Ryan, such hostility . . . are you. . ." _he quirked one lip up from its frown, and slowly the smile spread across his face again, _"Mad. . . At me?"_

Ryan narrowed his eyes to slits, and braced his shoulders, his guard shooting up as he glared into eyes as dark as night that played with a deadly mischief and fire. Joe was planning something. Perhaps a way to punish Ryan for his sarcasm. . . Ryan just knew it . . . Joe smiled and tilted his head the other way, _"I truly am sorry if you were offended because I couldn't meet you IMMEDIATELY upon your arrival. You see, I . . ." _Joe chuckled, and tilted his head down, gazing with a grin at the floor as he took a step away and swung his chin hand out, fingers spread apart, _"I would have loved to be able to do that Ryan, but. . ." _He looked up and smiled, _"I just wanted everything here to be absolutely PERFECT for our first meeting. So I felt the wait was a necessary evil. I truly am sorry if that upset you. . ." _Ryan just continued to frown, not giving Joe any other emotion but indifference. Joe smiled, _"But really, Ryan, you mustn't expect me to be able to meet with you the exact moment you'd prefer!" _he chuckled and took a firm step forward, and clapped the hand that was out from his body onto Ryan's shoulder, gripping the man hard through the shirt, giving him a light shake, and Ryan tensed more, his guard falling a bit as his eyes widened in surprise, his mouth opening a little as he breathed out in slight alarm, confusion written on his face at the movement. Joe smirked. Like that, Ryan's firm defenses had fallen. . . now it was time to strike a nerve.

"_After all, this isn't the first time I've informed you that you would have to wait for me . . . there was that time that you asked me to talk to you about Poe and the killings. . . you know, outside of my lecture hall? And then . . . there was that time when you interrupted one of my masterpieces . . . Sarah Fuller. . ." _He tilted his head and his grin widened, _"I know that Roderick doesn't know about that particular encounter. Not in its entirety. You didn't write those cute little details in your book. . ." _he lifted his other hand, the right one, and reaching out, rested it over Ryan's pace maker and gave it two firm pats, "_But I'm sure you haven't forgotten, have you, Ryan?" _Ryan gulped a little, and fought the urge to move away from Joe's hand, as the memory flooded through him as Joe straightened his head, and narrowing his dark eyes as his grin grew all the more, bored into Ryan's own eyes as Ryan stared right back, his chest tingled a bit, as if reminding him of one other time when he'd stared into those eyes as the owner of those eyes had stabbed him in the heart. He'd written in his book and in the official police report that Joe had simply thrown him to the ground, stabbed him, then had run back to Sarah, and just as Joe was going to slice her neck open, Ryan had shot him, taking him down. But in reality, it had been so much more than that.

There were nights when he closed his eyes and found that he couldn't get that image of Joe out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. . . _He had just run into the sorority house, and had run over to Sarah who lay on the floor, Joe's knife wedged deep within her abdomen. He'd been so intent on trying to help her, that until she'd whispered "Behind you," he hadn't even heard Joe moving behind him. The firm hands, as firm as the one on his shoulder now, had grabbed hold of his shoulders moments before Joe had turned and thrown Ryan against a cabinet nearby, the glass shattering within its doors and flying onto Ryan's clothes, before Ryan fell to the floor with a crash and a yelp. Then, Joe had wrenched the knife from Sarah, and had run over to Ryan, quickly kneeling down. In that instant, Ryan had just known that he was about to die, as he stared up into Joe's face. He'd never before seen such a terrifying face that struck horror and fear through his entire soul. He had gazed terrified into that face moments before the blade had sunk into his chest and he'd arched his head back with a shriek, his eyes shut tight in agony. Before turning to gaze at Joe once more, tears streaking down his face as his blood rushed from him._

_There had been this sort of calm composure, mixed with anger at the interruption of his kill of Sarah Fuller, plus a sense of happiness at what he was doing to Ryan, a satisfaction in the action he was performing, in Joe's eyes, even as he'd frowned at Ryan in displeasure at being interrupted. Ryan remembered staring with pain and fear filled eyes right back, his mouth open as he gasped as the knife sank into him, his lips shaking, the color draining from his face. He remembered the knife twisting within him, and he remembered letting out a little whimper of pain, gazing up into a face whose frown slowly transformed itself into a calm, composed, and happy smile. A smile that assured him that Joe was enjoying what he was doing with all of his being, as if he'd planned to murder Ryan all along. It had sent a shiver down Ryan's spine to see such insane pleasure, and he'd closed his eyes, waiting for the death that Joe's face promised. He'd laid his head back, and sighed a ragged breath as blood poured from his heart as Joe's hand was felt against his head, seeming to cradle it. A part of Ryan had wanted to beg for his life. Another part of him had felt that begging wouldn't work at all. So he'd resigned himself to lay there and let Joe continue, accepting his death, expecting the man to remove the knife and stab him again. Hopefully, Sarah would have enough time to call 911. The campus police could be there in five minutes. Maybe they wouldn't be too late to stop Joe from completely mutilating her after finishing with Ryan? Ryan had clung to that hope, the last hope that he could have._

_Joe had at that moment surprised Ryan. Twisting the knife just a bit more, he had removed it from Ryan, who began to breathe harder as even more blood flowed from the wound, his breath coming out in ragged gasps through trembling lips as he felt the pain in his chest become almost too much. Ryan had anticipated another stab, but instead, Joe had closed his eyes, and leaning down, had cradled Ryan's head as he'd pressed his forehead against Ryan's shaking one as the agent had gasped for breath, whimpering gently as more blood flowed from his body, feeling his chest pressing against Joe's, his blood staining the killer's clothes. Joe had made hushing sounds, whispering in his ear, breathing a warm breath against his skin, "Shhh, shhh, Ryan. I must say, you are quite beautiful to watch in such pain . . . I will for sure deal with you next, Ryan. But right now, I have a little lady who's waiting on me." Ryan had trembled at those words and whimpered a, "N-n-n-no, d-d-d-don't . . . d-d-deal with me . . . l-l-l-leave her alone. . ." He'd prayed for Joe to agree, to buy Sarah more time. But instead, Joe had merely chuckled, shook his head, and had murmured, "Now, now, none of that begging. . . you should know by now that she's going to die whether you get killed or not." Turning, he'd gotten off of Ryan and rushed to Sarah as Ryan had cried out, twisting and gazing with tear filled eyes at Joe. He couldn't just watch her die while he lay there! In fact, in that instance, Ryan had decided that he wouldn't. Because in that instant he knew: he was the only one who could stop Joe Carroll, and so he WOULD be the one to stop Joe Carroll. _

_With that firm determination, Ryan had put all of his energy into his mission. It'd taken all of Ryan's remaining strength as his body pulsed in pain to tackle Joe as the man lowered back down towards Sarah's body. Ryan had yelled in pain and anger and frustration as he'd slammed against the man, wrapping his arms around him and crying out as Joe's knife sliced into his arm as the man was slammed into. Luckily, Joe hadn't meant to cut into Ryan in his sudden surprise, and it'd been just a surface wound. To be honest, the table they'd collided with and toppled over next, a vase upon it shattering on the floor, had felt worse. Once they'd landed, with Joe in a dazed state, Ryan had kicked the knife away and had quickly turned the man over and pulled his arms behind his back, handcuffing him while fighting the searing pain in his chest as he bled out onto Joe and the floor. _

_Once he'd cuffed the man, Joe began to struggle more, growling, twisting about. Ryan had cried out as the man had bucked back and slammed into him to lie on top of him, some glass from the cabinet Ryan'd slammed into sliding into his chest wound only to be pushed in further by Joe, causing more blood to flow. Ryan had shut his eyes tight, tears streaking down, and had cried out, an ear piercing scream, before jerking his head around as Joe began to stagger to be upright once more. Spotting a broken off leg from the table, he had turned to Joe, grabbed the leg, and slammed the leg hard into the man's small of his back. Joe had cried out, but only staggered, not falling to the ground as Ryan had wanted him to. Ryan had struck the man again, sending him to the floor, and since Joe was then in in a position where he could be able to knock the man in the head, he had brought the club-like weapon crashing onto Joe's head. That, coupled with Joe's injuries from before, was enough to knock the man out temporarily._

_Once Ryan had reached into his chest and pulled the glass out, causing more blood to stream over his hand, he'd fumbled in his pocket, his bloody fingers slipping a bit as he gripped his cell phone and pulled the flip phone out. He had felt the blood streaming from his wound, and knew that he was about to pass out as his face and hands shook, his breath coming rapidly in gasps. He couldn't hear Sarah moving, only panting quickly nearby and sobbing, and knew that she was in no position to call the police. So he had known that he had to do it, before Joe woke back up . . . his bloody fingers slipped as the shaking increased and spots began to dance over his eyes due to the blood loss, as he moved them over the key pad, and barely managed to punch in 911. He'd moved the phone to his lips, and had whispered in his weakest, shakiest voice, "H-h-help. . . p-p-p-please. . . h-h-h-help. . .m-m-medical h-h-h-help. . . n-n-n-needed. . ." he had sucked in a deep breath, his entire body shaking and going colder and colder, and was sure that death was now knocking at his door. Suddenly, he felt Carroll move nearby, and had panicked, yelping and causing the 911 operator to ask him loudly what was the matter. Not answering her and focusing on Carroll as the man began to regain consciousness and full awareness, Ryan had then grabbed the leg of the table again, bashed the literature professor over the head thrice before collapsing on his own side while Joe slumped down once more into unconsciousness with a grunt. Ryan had panted for a few seconds with his eyes closed, and had put the phone shakily to his ear, "W-w-w-we're at . . ." he had panted and hung his head, breathing hard. His vision had gone completely black due to the blood loss at that point. _

"_Sir, just stay on the line with me," the operator woman had whispered to him, and Ryan had whimpered, dropping his head and pressing his forehead to the floor of the room, breathing hard, feeling his body weakening and weakening with every gasp for breath. He knew what the operator was trying to do. Triangulate the call, by keeping him on the phone. But they didn't have that kind of time, Ryan had been sure of that . . . he had felt as though he was going to die at any second, and he had not heard anything from Sarah at that point. She had fallen silent, which was definitely not good. Who knew if she was already dead, he had wondered. And who knew how long it'd take Joe to wake back up and finish what he'd started with the both of them? It could be any minute, Ryan had realized._

_Ryan had then forced through his shaking lips, "N-n-n-no, I-I-I . . . I c-c-c-c-can t-t-t-tell y-y-y-you wh-wh-where. . . I'm at a s-s-s-s-sorority . . . h-h-h-here on c-c-c-campus." He had paused, breathing hard as his head spun and is ears had popped. He had felt his pulse starting to slow. He had whimpered and clutched his chest before pressing against it, blood rushing over his hands as he tried one last thing to stop the bleeding, eyes shut tight in the pain, his teeth gritted. Then he had continued, recalling the sign he'd seen outside, "Phi . . . S-s-s-s-sigma . . . Z-z-z-z-z. . ." he had paused, breathing hard once more, his entire body pulsing in the pain he felt, and the woman had whispered in a worried tone, "Come on, sweetheart, just a little longer. Just tell me where. . . I've already got some men on the way to Greek row, just tell me where they need to go! You're going to make it! Just hold on a little longer!" Ryan had sobbed, wishing he could feel the same way, "Zeta . . . p-p-p-please h-h-h-hurry . . . sh-she's unconscious . . . the . . . the other's dead. . . C-C-Carroll did it . . .a-a-a-a-agent . . . d-d-d-d-d . . ." he'd collapsed, breathing hard as he felt unconsciousness wrapping its cold arms around him and begin to pull him away, and the woman had begun to panic. But now, it had felt as though he was underwater, and he couldn't make out what she said, as he whispered, "Down." _

_With that, he had begun to completely fall out of consciousness, feeling sure that he'd never wake again. His only hope could be that Sarah would fare better. In that instant, he had reached out and whimpered, gripping Joe's cloth jacket and holding on tightly, thinking that perhaps if he could restrain the man should Joe awaken, he could help keep Sarah alive if she still had the chance. Part of him had wanted to try his best to keep the man from hurting anyone else if the man woke. Another part of him, simply hadn't wanted to die alone. Ryan had whimpered, and as he had felt Joe shift a bit but not awaken, he had pulled himself more towards the madman, his blood smearing against the floor, and had flopped down on the man, shuddering, "Y-y-you won't hurt. . . anyone else. . . J-J-Joe," he'd whimpered, before going completely limp._

_Fifteen minutes later, Ryan had awoken momentarily with various IVS attached to him as a medic was crouched down on a stretcher, straddling him and putting pressure on his heart, gazing intently at him. His eyes had been green, his eyebrows blonde. Ryan had breathed hard against the oxygen mask, his chest bare of all clothing, as people rushed around him and lights flashed. The medic had had a mask on his face, but the way he gazed at Ryan, and the way his face crinkled, Ryan could tell that he was roughly in his late 40s and was smiling at him, "Hey Ryan, don't worry. You'll be okay. . . Carroll's going away, and Sarah's being stabilized. Just stay with me, man. You'll be okay." Ryan had shuddered some more, and the man had smiled weakly as sounds had roared around them, as the stretcher was hoisted into an ambulance, but the man kept eye contact with Ryan the whole time despite the pandemonium surrounding them, as another man rushed forward to stick a needle into Ryan's IV, muttering to Ryan that it was just a sedative to help him sleep. Ryan had just continued to gaze at the man above him as his gaze blurred, and tears leaked from his eyes. Tears of both relief and worry for his own life. The man had smiled more, "Ryan, my name is Matt. You're going to make it, Ryan, I'm going to make sure of it. You'll be alright, ok? You did a great thing! You'll be alright!" Ryan had shuddered, and closed his eyes as he laid his head back down, fading into a dreamless sleep. _

_The next time Ryan had awoken, he'd seen a white hospital room around him as he laid on his bed, various tubes and IVs and monitors hooked up to him. He'd breathed harder as he'd gazed at the ceiling, then a black haired doctor with a kind face and calm blue eyes had been leaning over him, whispering, "Hello, Ryan. You've been out for about three days. You managed to pull through the surgery, but we inserted a pacemaker inside of you. We'll monitor your vitals for around two weeks, and then if you feel able to leave then, we'll let you go with a nurse remaining with you, just to be sure." Ryan had blinked, feeling the oxygen tube in his nose as he sucked in a deep breath, fresh air flowing through his lips, and had whispered hoarsely, "P-pacemaker?" The doctor had smiled sympathetically at him, and had rubbed his forehead a little, ruffling his bangs slightly, "Your left ventricular was greatly punctured. You needed the pacemaker to maintain stability." Ryan had blinked, gazing up at him a bit more, and the doctor had smiled, "As long as you maintain regular checkups and you take care of yourself, you'll be fine, Ryan. Just . . . take care of yourself, ok?" Ryan had shuddered and nodded, then had whispered, "Wh-what about her? The girl? Is she alive? Or. . ." The doctor had smiled, "Sarah will be fine. She pulled through, and is still in intensive care, but she'll be fine." _

_Turning, he'd smiled, and pressed a button on a remote controlling the bed, and Ryan had grunted, shifting a bit as the bed half near the headboard had lifted up, and then the agent had gazed at the others in the room in surprise. There was his sister, Jenny Hardy, his superior, and Claire Matthews, all had tired looking eyes, and Jenny and Claire both had tear paths on their cheeks. Jenny had asked him what he needed and how was he feeling and had told him how worried she'd been and how proud she was of him, his superior had assured Ryan that he was proud of him and that Ryan could take all the down time he needed, and Claire had continuously sobbed out apologies. _

Once concern for him had fairly waned and Ryan was left with more time to himself, the entire experience in the sorority house as a whole, especially the way that Joe had looked at Ryan as he'd killed him, had made him wonder afterwards if Joe had thought about brutally killing Ryan the very first time he'd seen Ryan in his class, or when they'd met outside of the lecture hall Joe had been teaching in, or when Ryan had gone by his house to talk to him. It chilled him to think that that was possible, and quite frankly Ryan didn't know what felt worse: that sting of betrayal, or the pain of his chest cavity. He felt the sting of betrayal was a pretty good contender. After all, until he'd caught him, Ryan had trusted Joe a lot more than he would normally trust anyone. There was something about Joe, the thing that he'd spoken to Parker about after Maggie had been revealed to be a follower, which had been able to bring his protective emotional walls shattering down. And once they'd come down, Joe had gotten into his mind, and had nested up there, luring him into trusting the man because of a false sense of security the man had offered. Then, in that one night, Joe had taken his emotions and ripped them to pieces as he'd twisted that knife into Ryan. Ryan had never been the same. Sure, Claire had been one reason for leaving the FBI, as well as his pacemaker, but the truth was, after that experience, after that fateful night where Ryan had literally brushed shoulders with death, he'd never been the same. He'd deteriorated as an agent, going from uncaring and lethargic to fiery and manic in seconds, and vice versa, on cases. No matter how much counseling he took or how much psychotherapy was required for him to take, he still had issues that had plagued him and whatever team he was on during cases. Finally, the bureau had handed him resignation papers, and he'd accepted them.

"_Ahhhh, yes, I see that you remember," _Joe slurred, as if knowing just what had gone through Ryan's mind. Ryan let out a shuddering breath, and nodded, consenting, and Joe smirked, moving his finger tips to stroke gentle circles over Ryan's pacemaker, _"I'm HONORED that I was able to have such a profound effect upon you, Ryan." _He pressed in a bit, and Ryan took in a sharp breath. Joe smiled, patting both his pacemaker and shoulder, and took a step back, _"Well, back to the current subject. I assure you that the reason I was gone for so long was because I wanted to make sure that tonight went just as planned. You should be honored by that, Ryan."_

Ryan gritted his teeth and set his jaw, narrowing his eyes as his temporary sadness and uneasiness subsided and a fresh hot anger quickly replaced it. How dare Joe act as if Ryan's turmoil was nothing?! Especially when he was for sure about to cause Ryan even more turmoil and pain?! Joe smiled and moved his head to be upright, "Now, Ryan, I said hello to you earlier. And typically when a person says hello, Ryan, it'd be polite to say hello back. Now please, show me that you have some manners. I know your family raised you well, so there must be some inside of you." Ryan narrowed his eyes at Joe's reference to his family. He didn't want the man anywhere _near _his family, much less talking about them all! He regretted greatly ever _telling _Joe about his family, much less _writing _about them in his damn book! He gave a snarl from deep in his throat, anger and hate in his gaze and face, _"Since when have you cared about politeness, Joe? When you were brutally murdering all of those innocent girls?"_ he said in a deathly cold voice full of venom and looking to harm, before sneering, his eyes alight with maliciousness, _"If it's that kind of politeness you're looking for, it disgusts me and you WON'T be finding any here!"_

He'd expected for Joe to attack at that, to break the façade of being polite towards Ryan. To strike out at Ryan. Anything aggressive . . . Ryan wanted that. He craved for that. The only thing that made his anger flare more than Joe's obvious sadism and uncaring nature towards others was Joe's calmness in the most inappropriate of circumstances. But instead of striking out at Ryan, Joe only smiled calmly at him, tilting his head a little as if even more amused because of Ryan's snappy retort. Ryan caught movement out of the corner of his own eye and turned, frowning as Roderick moved forward, cold determination in his eyes, his hand raised as if to reprove Ryan.

Ryan whipped his head around, staring as Joe lifted a hand to stop him. Roderick stopped cold, and frowned at Joe questioningly, his eyes narrowed a bit, eyebrows creased in confusion, as Joe smiled at him and slurred, resting his other hand on Ryan's shoulder, this time the right hand,_ "No, Roderick. He may speak freely here . . . for now."_ Ryan grunted and tried to shove the hand off. He didn't want Joe's protection. Let Roderick hit him! Just let him hit him! That was what Ryan needed! Didn't Joe realize that?! His eyes widened. Of course Joe realized that . . . why else would he be so adamant about not really hurting Ryan? He knew that was what Ryan needed . . . and so he kept that from him. . . He shuddered at the thought and closed his eyes, turning his head and gazing longingly at the door.

Joe was doing it again. He was getting under Ryan's skin. And now, Ryan found himself longing for the solace of the room he'd been given. He hated the effect Joe had upon him, dreaded it . . . he'd do anything to be away from the man. . . Roderick's reply to Joe brought him back to the current situation, as the man muttered, _"Joe, I was just trying to reinforce what you said to him. To be polite. . ." "I know you were, Roderick. But no worries, I can handle Ryan quite well, can't I, Ryan?" _Joe slurred, the last directed at the former agent. Ryan took in a shuddering breath and turned to Joe, who smiled calmly at him, rubbing his shoulder a little, _"After all, you know what will happen if you disobey me too much, don't you, Ryan?" _Ryan nodded, blinking, letting a ragged breath out through trembling lips.

Joe smiled and turned to Roderick, "_See? Nothing to worry about. Now run along Roderick. I can handle things from here . . . you need your sleep. After all, you still look dreadfully tired from the drive all the way here. So you may leave us NOW." _The last word had a slight inflection upon it, and Ryan knew it was a command. Roderick knew as well, and the man turned and walked off, muttering a quick, tight, clipped, _"Yes sir." _before slamming the door he did so, Joe turned to Ryan and smiled warmly, _"He means well, but to be honest, he's becoming quite annoying. I mean, he's bright, but not nearly as smart as you or I, Ryan, I'm afraid. And he has this terrible tendency to want to take matters into his own hands, that is for sure. I fear, he has issues with relinquishing control to the person who has done the most to earn it," _with that Joe sighed, and closed his eyes, shaking his head and walking away, rubbing the back of his head as he made his way slowly to the end table and picked up his glass of water, taking a sip before turning to Ryan, leaning against the table some more, a frown set upon his face, _"I truly am afraid that Roderick has lived out his usefulness. You see, all he was really good for was getting this house, the followers, and anyone else I wanted picked up. . . and now. . ." _a wide grin of yellowed teeth crossed his face, and it appeared to Ryan to be a leer of a predator finally catching its prey. . . and he had a feeling of dread concerning who he felt the prey was.

He took a step back, his guard shooting up and his eyes going cold and narrow as he looked into Joe's eyes, ready to try to run or attack at any given moment. . . Joe smirked a bit wider at that, _"I have you, Ryan. . ." _he took a final sip of the water, and turning, walked over to the table in the room and picked up a pitcher to refill his glass, _"Now, I do have a delicious dinner over here that has been VERY well prepared for the both of us, but before we begin. . ." _he turned and walked over, one hand shoved in his pocket as he sipped from the wine glass of water, until he stood before Ryan, merely three feet away, and lowered his glass, smiling at Ryan as he leaned lazily to one side, _"I'd like to address a few things." _Ryan gulped a bit, and stood a bit straighter. Bracing for the worst.

Instead of attacking like Ryan may have expected, Joe just smiled warmly, "Now, let me answer your statements from before in opposite order. First, I fail to see how anyone can be truly innocent, so I don't think you're justified in calling those girls innocent. Secondly . . ." he grinned a playful grin, "As far as I know, and I'm pretty sure I know you pretty well, at least concerning the following information . . .you are not an innocent girl, nor am I. So this is a different situation from the example you used. So, unless you've gone through a gender changing surgery that I don't know about . . ." he raised his eyebrows questioningly and Ryan gritted his teeth, his eyes widening in embarrassment as a red blush came over his face. Joe smiled, raising an eyebrow even higher, chuckling, "Well, have you?" Ryan narrowed his eyes at the question, and hissed, forcing his embarrassment down, "_No. No I have not, you bastard."_

Joe chuckled, and took another sip of his water before continuing, that same Cheshire grin on his face, his eyes alight with enjoyment and amusement combined, "Yes, I thought not. Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Now, since you and I are men, not girls, and both of us _clearly_ are not entirely innocent, I believe that your statements are invalid and therefore are useless in this situation. Which means that my own demand still stands. Therefore, politeness, to me, is a must here, at least on some level, my good man. So, as I said to Roderick, you are free to speak your mind, but I must _insist_ that you remain polite. And if you don't. . ." a burning intensity entered his eyes, and it filled Ryan with dread at the excitement that crossed over Joe's face, "_Others will suffer_," the man slurred in a way that assured Ryan that he would enjoy causing certain "others" their suffering.

Ryan felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he once more imagined the countless tortures Joe could and _would_ unleash on Claire and Joey, and lowered his gaze, gazing at the floor and bowing his head a little in submission, letting Joe know that he understood, and was willing to behave to keep them safe. He bit his lip then licked it a little in his nervousness, not entirely knowing what to say now. . .

For a few moments, Ryan continued to gaze at the floor, and an awkward silence filled the room. Ryan was all too aware that Joe had him alone now, and he felt it as fear welled up within him as he now imagined not what Joe could do to Claire and Joey, but rather what he might have planned for Ryan. . . And he had to wonder, what on earth did the man have planned for him? Would he attack him? Poison him with the "dinner" he spoke of? Stab him to finish the job he'd begun in the sorority house long ago? Beat him over and over in cold sweet revenge? What? Ryan felt a shiver run down his spine at the possibilities and the knowledge that he didn't even know a shred of what was going on in Carroll's mind regarding his plans for Ryan. He was tempted to just ask the man to get it over with, but his fear at what may lie ahead for him held him back. He jumped a little as Joe leaned forward, reached out and touched his chin with the tips of his fingers of his right hand, _"I'd prefer it if you'd look at me, Ryan. Honestly, the floor can't be THAT more interesting than me, can it?"_

The man slowly put pressure on Ryan's chin, guiding the man's face up, and Ryan gulped, closing his eyes, beginning to shake all over in apprehension and fear, fighting the urge to run or to fight back. For a moment, Joe held him there, and then the killer whispered gently, _"Open your eyes, Ryan." _ With a heavy sigh and flare of his nostrils Ryan did as asked, gazing into the face of his greatest, darkest enemy. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to ask. Otherwise he knew it'd either drive him insane wondering about the answer or either he'd just completely break down. Gazing into those pitiless dark brown eyes, into that smiling face, he whispered in a hoarse voice, "_What do you want from me, Joe? What punishment, what torture do you have in store for me? Please, just tell me. I. . . I just want to know. . . Knowing would be better than not knowing, I just. . . I want. . ." _he drew in a deep shuddering breath, as Joe's face didn't even change one bit, and felt hot tears bead up in his eyes and spill down his cheeks. Tears of exhaustion, of frustration, and fear, _"Please Joe, I don't CARE what it is. Just please, tell me." _He fell silent, his eyes continuing to beg and plead with the man to heed his 'd tried to remain strong. He had remained strong for as long as possible but now, he just couldn't do it anymore. He was tired, exhausted, and just wanted to get whatever Joe had planned over with.

Joe smiled warmly, "Calm down now, Ryan, there's no need for tears! After all, I don't want much from you, and don't have very much planned for this evening, anyway. All I want is a nice, polite dinner, Ryan. That is all for now. And I thought it would be rather easy for you. Just being polite while eating when you are obviously hungry by this point. . ." Ryan gritted his teeth a little and sniffed, try to compose himself again as best as he could while his stomach growled as if to confirm what Joe had just pointed out about Ryan's hunger. Joe continued to smile for a moment, then sighed, frowning as he tilted his head to the side, moving his fingers to grip Ryan's chin harder, almost to the point of bruising the skin, before muttering, "And yet. . . despite giving you one of the nicest rooms in the house, and accommodating you in a relatively fine manner, you still have persisted on being rude and making things difficult . . . from the moment you entered the room . . . I did say Hello, after all. . . and you as of yet have not properly addressed me in similar fashion." He frowned a bit longer at him, then let go and lifted his glass to his lips again, taking a sip before lowering it, "It's a real shame, to have done so much for you and to have received so little in return."

He turned and walked over and flopped on the couch, still drinking his water, gazing at the fire, "Almost makes me want to send you back to your room, and go find Claire to spend time with. I'm sure she could eat . . . not that I've been starving her or anything, but, if I do say so myself, that dinner is very tasty. . ." he took another sip. Ryan gritted his teeth. He honestly felt that torture would be easier than giving the man respect that he didn't want to satisfy Joe with. Not after all that the man had done . . . but Ryan knew that for now, he had to give in. Joe may not have said it as a threat, but Ryan knew that Joe was reminding Ryan about Claire to remind him of the high stakes. It was Joe's way of telling him that he wasn't asking Ryan to be polite, he was _demanding_ it. In other words, whether Ryan liked it or not, he had to be polite, or Claire and others would suffer. He flexed his fingers a bit, and then sighed, sagging his shoulders. He hated feeling like Joe was able to control him so easily. And yet, he had to give in. For now. He told himself that once he wasn't so tired, he'd be more ready to fight the man, and so he sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and whispered, closing his eyes and bowing his head as he clasped his hands tightly behind his back, so hard that his fingernails dug into his skin, _"I am sorry, Joe. Please, offer me a second chance. I promise I'll try my hardest to be polite to you if you do that." _

"Well. . ." Joe began. Then paused. Ryan gritted his teeth and chanced a glance up, to find the man frowning at his glass of water, sloshing the liquid around a little, as if thinking things over, "I do not often give second chances, but. . ." he smiled at Ryan a little, mirth in his eyes as he stopped moving the glass, "As usual you are an exception, Ryan. Very well. . ." He lifted his glass in Ryan's direction, "Let's start from the beginning." With that, he hoisted himself up, and walked over to be just a foot from Ryan, that sly, all knowing smile once more in place. It almost made Ryan cringe. But he was trying his hardest to control himself and his reactions, so he managed to restrain himself. "_Hello Ryan," _Joe slurred, a smile on his face as he took a sip of water before raising his eyebrows expectantly, that grin growing all the more. Knowing he had Ryan to the point where Ryan would say _precisely _what Joe wanted him to. Ryan forced a weak smile on his face, and whispered back, _"Hello Joe."_

Joe smiled and nodded approvingly, taking a step back and holding his glass up to Ryan, "Not bad, not bad at all. At least for now. . ." he turned and walked over to the table, and turning to face Ryan, held a hand out towards Ryan's chair, the smile never leaving his face, "Please, come and sit. You look like you're terribly tired." Ryan blinked and moved over slowly towards the chair, glancing at Joe nervously. He knew everything he did mattered, not just for his sake, but for Claire and Joey's. And he wasn't willing to put them in any more jeopardy. An awkward silence fell over the room as he walked over, and aside from the fire crackling, there was no noise. That was unsettling for Ryan, so he chose to speak first, choosing a conversation he felt was appropriate for what Joe wanted to be a "polite dinner", _"I . . . want to . . . thank you . . . for my room . . . and my supplies you provided. It's all very fitting for me and very nice,"_ he whispered, having noted how shaky he was in the beginning of the sentence and working to make the rest of it smoother, to help with the charade Joe was asking of him by his demand for politeness. Ryan turned his head upon arriving at the table, his eyes falling on the chair he stood before. He gritted his teeth, noting the chains and braces at the bottom of the chair. Noting that the other chair had no such things, he knew which one of the two of them was to be sat in by him. It set him a little on edge. The last thing he wanted was to be chained up and bolted down around the killer. . .

Ryan suddenly tensed up more as he felt Joe's hand move to rest on the portion of his back between his shoulders. He frowned, turning slowly to meet Joe's eyes, as the man only smiled calmly back, and began to rub Ryan's back in what would by most be perceived as a comforting manner, moving his fingers and palm in circles. But there was still a roughness to it that reminded Ryan all too well about how dangerous the man truly was. Joe smiled warmly, and patted Ryan's back, "How about I unlock those braces and pull your chair out for you, Ryan?" Ryan frowned, and nodded slowly.

In no time, Joe was kneeling down, and unlocking the braces before standing back up, moving behind the chair and pulling it up and out of the metal bases. He turned to Ryan and smiled, leaning down and patting the seat of the chair, "Sit." Ryan blinked and nodded, turning his back on Joe as he backed up towards the chair and slowly sat, his senses on high alert and waiting for a sudden attack. Joe smiled, "Excellent. Now, if you can just grip the edges of the seat and hold it up, I can move it back into place and lock you in nice and tight." Ryan frowned, knowing that Joe was asking him to help him secure the trap that would hold Ryan between the chair and the table, but did it all the same. His tiredness had already let Joe get under his skin far too much. He couldn't afford to waste any more energy over something like this, only to tire himself out, accomplish nothing, and be too exhausted to fight against Joe if he needed to later in the evening.

Ryan gritted his teeth and sucked in a deep breath as Joe leaned down and secured the braces, and the former agent turned to the man as Joe stood up and smiled fondly down at Ryan, resting a hand on his shoulder, "Cozy?" Ryan frowned, "What about my wonderful bracelets you have here?" he turned and picked up a chain before turning to Joe, holding it up towards the killer. Joe chuckled, and shook his head, "Until you give me reason to use them, those restraints will not be necessary, Ryan." With that Joe turned and walked to his chair, slid it out, and scooted it in after sitting on its cushion, and smiled, leaning forward and folding his hands, "We'll eat shortly, but first I'd like to carry on our conversation from before. . ." Ryan frowned, "What conversation?"

Joe smiled, "Why, the one you started, of course! Speaking of the things in your room and saying that they were nice? Thanking me for them?" Ryan frowned a little more. That smile on Joe's face made him feel like there was another thing coming that would make Ryan feel like he had just been hit by a semi, something else that would poke and prod at him, drawing out even more emotions of helplessness, fear, anger, or sadness. He didn't like that feeling. But what was he going to do? Yell at Joe to shut the hell up? Yeah, that would _help_ . . . help Joe kill Claire and Joey all the faster. . .

Joe smiled and leaned back in his chair, his thumbs twiddling together before him, the rest of his hands intertwined tightly by the fingers, "I really am glad that you like the accoutrements, and appreciate them. Believe it or not it . . . took _quite _a bit of planning to be able to know what to get you. After all, for a little over 9 years, I had _Molly_ make so many notes on your lifestyle while she stayed close to you. . ." Joe tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling, a seemingly concerned frown on his face as he gazed at the stucco above him, "Now that I think about it, that was perhaps very exasperating to her. . . I do hope she's not too exhausted. . ." he suddenly smiled and turned to Ryan, "No matter, though. I'm certain she'll be happy to know all that hard work was put to good use," Joe murmured.

Ryan's eyes widened, as he stared with mouth agape at Joe, not even blinking. He felt as though the entire world had stopped on its axis with Joe's words. . . _Molly . . ._ Molly had been working for Joe? He turned his head down, and gritted his teeth as he reached out and gripped the arm rests of the chair, gazing at the plates of the table before closing his eyes. . . _Of course he used her. Who else would have had so much access to my apartment? To my smallest, most insignificant preferences? Besides, using someone I dated would be ideal in Joe's mind . . . since a part of him surely wants to get back at me for taking Claire. . . _Ryan should have known. Should have put the pieces together earlier . . . but Molly . . . she'd checked up on him, in more ways than the typical friendly neighborly knock on the door. She'd been his doctor, his nurse when he needed his blood pressure and other vitals measured. . . If she'd wanted to, there were so many times when she could have stabbed him, poisoned him, murdered him. . .

"Ryan?" Joe slurred, smiling a little and tilting his head, appreciating the other man's obvious internal pain, "I . . . haven't hit a sore spot, have I?" Ryan slowly looked up and hardened his jaw, frowning hard at Joe. Sure, he may not have loved Molly as much as Claire, but he had trusted her. Just like Joe . . . hell, he even had given her a key to his apartment. He glowered at Joe accusingly. The man must just _love _taking Ryan's precious trust, ripping it from the man and shredding it before dragging it through muck and filth. . . he seemed to do it far too much for it to be just a coincidence each time. . .

Joe smirked, gazing into those blue eyes that clouded with hate. That was good. He wanted to see that hate. It would unleash even more of Ryan's inner darkness later. Then the real _fun_ would begin. . . He chuckled, "Now why are you giving me such an awful, accusing look, Ryan? After all, it's not like _I _spied on you. . ." Ryan frowned at him all the harder, and if looks could kill, Joe would have long since been dead, "You might as well have. . ." Joe smiled calmly, "Tell me Ryan, would you honestly expect any different? Because if you did, that is truly disheartening, to know that someone who would be naïve enough to expect that was in fact the person to take me down initially way back in 2003." Ryan sneered, "What? Beginning to doubt your own brilliance Joe? Thinking that someone that stupid could take you down?" Joe chuckled, and shook his head, "With as much as I've been accomplishing, Ryan, _hardly._ If you truly are that _stupid_, I wouldn't consider it a lack of my own skill, but only an increase in your own luck. After all, you may have been able to stop me from murdering Sarah once, but you weren't able to stop me the second go around, now were you?"

Ryan growled, and it took everything in him to not try to go for the man's throat, as the memory of that horrible night resonated in his mind. The night this new nightmare had begun. . . Joe tilted his head, smiling calmly at Ryan, "My oh my, you still are sore about that? I'm sorry Ryan, but you can't just keep thinking about the past. It will destroy you, I assure you. From the inside out. And although that may be interesting to watch, my plans don't allot for time for you to do that." Ryan growled, "And what makes you think that I'll follow your plans any further, Joe?" Joe smirked, "You want Claire and Joey to remain alive, now don't you?" Ryan frowned, and images of both of their faces, followed by that picture Joe had sent him, filled his vision. He frowned, realizing that Molly most likely had left that letter on his stoop. Which brought him to her again mentally.

He sighed as that sadness took forefront once again, and collapsed against the frame of the chair, "No sir . . . _why her, Joe? Why Molly? Why'd you have her get close to me like that? Only to betray me?" _Joe smiled in a sympathetic way, tilting his head the other way, "I understand your pain, Ryan. It must be _so _hard to have trusted me first only to have that trust ripped to pieces, then to now find out that Molly, yet another person you trusted, has in fact been betraying you to me all along. Not to mention Claire running out on you to try to save her son. . ." Ryan felt a tear bead up in his eye as each word Joe said struck at him deeper and deeper, like the man was stabbing a fresh wound. Joe frowned at him, "Did it hurt you terribly, Ryan? Do you feel betrayed by everyone? Like you can't trust anyone? Like you're completely alone?"

Ryan lowered his gaze to his plate as he felt the tear race down his cheek, and took a shuddering breath, before whispering, _"Yes. It does. . . I feel betrayed by everyone . . . that's how all this has made me feel, Joe." _He chose to go with the truth now because first, Joe had demanded politeness of him. Secondly, why not? He may just die soon anyway. Joe sighed, and reached out, gripping Ryan's left hand and squeezing it, the killer leaning over the table, _"I truly am sorry, Ryan._ I wish I didn't have to do what I did, but I just. . . I had to do what I could, Ryan. After all, I was in jail, and you didn't think I'd just let you, my novel's hero, walk about unsupervised all the time at home, now did you?" Ryan frowned, blinking at the hand squeezing his. That same hand that had murdered countless victims.

He knew that Joe's words were meaningless. That the man must secretly revel in Ryan's pain. But in that moment, it was the only comfort Ryan could receive . . . and he'd take anything, as tired and exhausted as he was. He felt like his heart had been shattered, and right now, he'd cling to any comfort. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth in slight revulsion at what he was about to do, and twisting his hand a little, squeezed Joe's hand back, _"I see now that I shouldn't have just assumed that you wouldn't, Joe. And you're right . . . if it weren't for her, you wouldn't have been able to accommodate me so well. . ." _the words felt like acid leaving his mouth and burned his tongue, but he let them slip by. He sought the comfort that Joe had once offered him that Ryan had once felt was so genuine . . . he looked up, and gazed at Joe, who smiled calmly back, his expression so much like the others that Ryan had seen from him, that it was unreadable. _"Thank you," _Ryan whispered. Joe smiled warmly, _"You're welcome, Ryan."_

Ryan blinked. There were many questions resting on his tongue. He wanted to ask Joe how long Molly'd been following him, but his emotions were in such turmoil that he honestly felt that he couldn't take the truth Joe offered if it turned out to be as awful as he feared, that Molly had never been truly interested in him at all. He wanted to ask Joe about Molly's true dark past, not just the one she'd made up for him. What had she done that had made her a follower? How had she earned enough of Joe's respect to carry out such a big task? Ryan felt he couldn't handle those answers either, though, and so he chose not to ask. Maybe one day, he'd ask. But not today. Most of all, he wanted to ask what _all _Joe had asked Molly to record for him in her notes or whatever it was she had made to give to Joe concerning Ryan. Claire had mentioned that Charlie, her follower, had had clips of her sleeping . . . had Molly recorded other similar things? Of Ryan sleeping? Of them . . . engaging in. . . . Ryan shuddered a bit mentally at the thought.

Joe smiled suddenly. He enjoyed the mixed emotions that he knew were flying through Ryan's mind, and found Ryan's silence and actions rather amusing. He reveled in how the man had crumbled so quickly. But he quickly tired of such a calm front from the other man. He needed more excitement to be truly satisfied. And so he chose to whittle a bit more at Ryan's nerves, to touch perhaps a fresh, hot one. To cause yet another one of Ryan's magnificent emotions to surface, "_Still, despite all that inner turmoil that I truly am sorry for causing within you, overall it was a good plan, wouldn't you agree? Now you can have all the comforts of home right here. Maybe even more than that? So, in the end, by utilizing Molly's information, I was able to ensure that your stay here with me will be as comfortable as possible!"_ Ryan frowned hard at him and wrenched his hand out of Joe's, which continued to lie there, although Joe smiled widely. Yes. . . Ryan had taken the bait. . . Which meant that Joe's fun was not yet over. Excellent. He curled in his fingers slowly, smirking at Ryan even more.

Ryan glared across at Joe. He already felt upset about Molly, and for Joe to act like he was just some guest, harshly pricked his nerves. He had a feeling Joe was just messing with him on purpose, but he wouldn't let that stop him from saying what he had to say to the bastard across from him, politeness be damned. Ryan snarled, and then hissed, "_Yeah, all the comforts of home, Joe. You've definitely provided them all . . . so I should feel right at home, RIGHT? Which makes me wonder why I still don't, why I'd rather be ANYWHERE ELSE but here. Now why is that?" _He tilted his head as if confused, then narrowed his eyes with hate, and glowered at Joe, "_Ooooh, that's right! I'm under constant surveillance, I can't leave my rooms unless someone comes to get me, and if I act out, Claire and Joey will be brutally murdered! And let's not forget that if I act out of line even now, you'll restrain me to this chair, if not worse! Now, Joe," _he pointed a finger at the man, venom in his next words, his lips trembling as he felt his anger pouring out of him towards the other man, _"I'll be as polite as I can be. I know what's at stake, and I won't risk Claire or Joey. You know that. But please, respect me ENOUGH to not treat me like I'm a guest. Treat me as I am: a hostage who would rather not be here. Because that is what I am, and that's all I will ever be, as long as you hold Claire and Joey or anyone else over my head, forcing me to comply. So you can quit with this whole charade!"_

Before Ryan could go on, Joe threw his head back, eyes shut tight, a deep throated laugh emitting from the man, as he brought his hand back in towards himself. Ryan stared, and leaned back a little, away from the table and the man. He did _not _like it when Joe laughed . . . it always sent a chill and a hint of worry down his spine. Finally, the killer grinned and turned to Ryan, "A 'hostage'?! Oh, you are _sorely_ mistaken! You are not a hostage! You are in training!"

Ryan stared at him, a shiver going down his spine yet again at the sound of that, " 'T-t-t-t-training'?" Joe smiled and nodded, "Yes, yes, that's right . . . but we shall get to that later, my good man. Now, Molly did say that you liked filet mignon? And if I'm not mistaken, she said you liked it rare, correct?" Ryan frowned and nodded slowly, as Joe smiled even more at him. "As it turns out, that is my favorite cook for the meat. I love that blood red color." Ryan sighed, "I can imagine." Then he immediately regretted that. That couldn't possibly be polite . . ._ "I. . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . ." _he began to stammer. Joe cracked a grin as he chuckled, his eyes alight with mirth, "No worries. I always like a good joke. . . 'I can imagine' . . . yes, I imagine you can. Anyway, Lizzie makes a great filet mignon, and so she made some for us this evening. She also made us some herbed mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus! So I do hope you are hungry!" Ryan frowned, and opened his mouth to speak. Honestly, he was starving, but he'd much rather get the "training" discussion out of the way. But before he could say anything, his stomach growled, beating him out in the rush to make a new conversation. Joe smiled, "I suppose that says it all, then. Now come, let's eat. I do believe you might have been polite on an empty stomach for far too long already." With that, he gripped the top of the cover of the platter on the table and pulled it off, "DINNER IS SERVED!" he laughed.

Ten minutes later, Ryan pulled the piece of rare Filet mignon to his mouth, and munched on it quietly, frowning, his eyes on his plate of food as he let the juices of the meat run over his tongue and palate before swallowing the meat. Joe hadn't lied. Whoever that "Lizzie" person was, she was a good cook. It was all delicious to Ryan. And Joe had in fact had it under the covers in bowls together. So anything he ate, Ryan would too, eliminating any doubt that the food was poison-free. He'd even let Ryan have his pick of the filet mignons, to eliminate any chance of him giving Ryan the tainted cut of meat if one of them had been poisoned. Overall, it was a good meal. The potatoes couldn't have been creamier or fuller of flavor, and the asparagus was cooked well too. And the flavor on the meat was phenomenal. Plus, rather than watch Ryan and make him feel uncomfortable, Joe focused on his own food, eating contently as the silence of the room settled, only broken by the occasional clink of fork and knife to plate. The only way that Joe even showed he acknowledged Ryan's presence was when he had offered that Ryan get a second helping of potatoes or offered to pour Ryan some water when they'd begun the meal and when he'd notice Ryan was getting low on water, since Ryan still looked a bit hungry or thirsty to him, respectively.

Ryan had accepted at first without hesitation the food and drinks. But the more he had eaten, the more he had wondered about the water. Both he and Joe were drinking water, and it made him wonder why. . . why had Joe already had him drink all the water in his room while waiting to join Joe for dinner, and why was Joe even drinking water with him now? Ryan figured the reason behind him drinking water now was perhaps the same as the reason why he had before and finally he asked Joe about it.

Joe lifted his head, munching on his steak slowly as Ryan frowned across at him, "Why do you ask, Ryan? Does the water taste wrong to you?" Ryan frowned and shook his head, "The water's fine, Joe. I'm just wondering why we're both drinking it." Joe smiled calmly at him, and tilted his head down, reaching for his cloth napkin in his lap to dab at some potatoes on his upper lip, "Ahh, I see. Well, you're drinking it because although I'm sure you'd prefer vodka or scotch, I would like to have you as sober as possible for your training, so I'm hoping that by tomorrow that water might have flushed all the alcohol right out of you." He looked up and smiled at Ryan, "And I'm drinking water, because, well, I feel it's only polite that if water is the only thing I'm letting you drink, that I should drink it too, and not taunt you with any alcohol I might want to drink myself."

Ryan frowned . . . there it was again. That word . . . training. He turned to his mashed potatoes and spooned some up, frowning, gazing at the golden spoon in his hand, "Well, I must admit that this is all pretty impressive. The table, the chairs, the room, the silverware. . ." He looked up, frowning at Joe, "How'd you manage it?" He moved the spoon to his mouth, and ate the creamy potatoes slowly, slowly pulling the spoon from his lips. He longed to ask what the training was. It was a looming subject in his mind and although he felt he may not like what it would entail, he just wanted to know and get that question out of the way. Still, he wouldn't talk about it until Joe was ready to talk about it. He definitely didn't want to put himself, or Claire, or Joey in jeopardy.

Joe smiled warmly, and after pouring himself and Ryan some more water, began, "Well, some of the furniture in the room, the couch, my chair, the rug, the paintings and art on the walls, the candles, the fireplace rack and its tools, and most of the clock, were just. . ." he took a sip of water and held the glass there, gazing around the room, sloshing the water around, "Picked up by some of my followers . . . to you know, liven up the place. But the table and chairs, and their accoutrements, were made by two . . . rather special followers." He smiled at Ryan who frowned and tilted his head down, slicing into some asparagus and eating it, glancing at Joe every few seconds to show he was listening. "I had them made especially for you. Like I had the pendulum in the clock made especially for my own enjoyment. Tell me, Ryan, do you recognize it?" Ryan frowned and twisted in the chair, a piece of asparagus uneaten on his fork, and gazed at the pendulum sweeping back forth. He blinked, " 'The Pit and the Pendulum', right? That's what it's themed after?" he turned back around, and blinked, taking the asparagus into his mouth and grinding it between his teeth, breaking the stalk apart before swallowing it, and turned to Joe, who smiled warmly at him, munching on some more filet mignon himself, a satisfied look on the man's face.

Ryan blinked, and turning, reached for and picked up his own water, taking a quick sip, eyes half lidded, before pulling back, "It suits you. Definitely." Joe smiled, "I knew you'd catch that reference. You were always so . . . knowledgeable about the things I was interested in, Ryan. . ." Ryan frowned and turned to Joe, halfway through cutting another piece of meat. Joe smiled, "That's why you always will be one of my favorite people, Ryan. The way your mind works, it's so . . . so much different from my own, but yet still so much the same. Your knowledge about American literature and prose was truly extraordinary. The way you caught on to the ripping of the eyes as a reference to Poe in my masterpieces, was only one part of that." Ryan frowned, "Well, I'm not completely stupid, and Poe was pretty popular." He finished cutting the meat a bit harshly and pulled it to his mouth, breathing hard and closing his eyes before he ate it. _I'm not like you. I'm not crazy. I'm not a killer._

He opened his mouth and ate it, keeping his eyes closed. For a moment, he told himself that he wasn't sitting there across from Joe having a seemingly normal but at the same time completely abnormal meal with the killer. No, he was back home in his apartment, eating a meal he'd picked up to go from a local restaurant. . . or with Jenny, at her restaurant or home. . . or. . . "Still, the knowledge you had about Edgar Allan Poe, and also Nathaniel Hawthorne, was quite extraordinary for a man who didn't choose to go into literature as a career," Joe murmured. Ryan frowned and opened his eyes, his allusion shattering as he looked up at Joe, slowly swallowing the meat. Joe grinned at him, "Do you remember Ryan, that day, you sat in on my class? Do you? I was. . . I was discussing _The Scarlet Letter_. Easily one of my favorite works of Hawthorne who, although he didn't quite meet the standards that Poe set so high, was one of my favorites. . ."

Ryan frowned, "Yes, I remember." He turned back to his plate and cut into some more steak, the next to last piece left on the plate, perhaps. "Good, good . . . now, I was about . . . what, 65 minutes into my lecture? Yes, I think it was that far. I know that I had roughly . . . what was it, 25 minutes left? Yes, I think that's right, I remember glancing at this timer I kept on my podium. Anyway, I was walking back and forth in front of the board, and I said. . ." he chuckled, and Ryan looked up, frowning at him, swallowing the chunk of meat slowly. Joe turned to him and grinned, "I asked this boy, on the front row, I think his name was Peter, or something. I remember asking him, 'But who are the true victims in the novel?' Peter was rather a dunce, and at times it made me wonder how the hell he had graduated from an undergraduate program at all! But I figured, that he would catch what I'd been going on and on about the whole time! But he . . . he said. . . 'Hester and her daughter Pearl. I mean, she had to wear the letter, right? And Pearl grew up on the fringes of society because of it?' I was so disappointed. And was about to answer it for him, properly, when I saw you shake your head a bit from the back. I found that odd, that you would engage that much, when I'd never seen you in that class before, but I asked you if you knew anyway, and you said. . . tell me, what did you say, Ryan?"

Ryan frowned, and swallowed the mashed potatoes he'd just put into his mouth and looked up, frowning at Joe, and licked his lips a little before whispering, "_I said, that the true victims were the ones whose dark secrets were never revealed to the society, who had to live fake lives because of their own stubbornness and pride. . . Roger Chillingworth, and Reverend Dimmesdale. They felt that keeping their own secrets hidden was their best way of getting either revenge on those they felt had already spited them or of keeping their standing in society, respectively. But in the end, their secrets caused them to deteriorate emotionally, psychologically, and physically."_ Joe smiled, and nodded, "Yes. Yes, you did say that. And I was so proud of you. . . you know, for a moment, I thought that you were just repeating something I might have said in class but there was just. . . there was just something about the way you said that, that made me think that you spoke the way you spoke, with _so _much understanding, due to a prior knowledge of the book."

Ryan frowned and shrugged, "I liked to read growing up. So when I went to college, those were the main classes besides criminology that I chose to take when I had the chance. I think I read that story in particular about 6 times from high school through undergraduate school." He turned back and picked up the last piece of mignon with his fork and ate it. Joe smiled, and turning, scooped up some mashed potatoes and ate them before continuing, "Well, I was certainly grateful for you having that great knowledge about the book then. It really made my day." Ryan frowned, glancing up at him, "I'm sure."

Joe smiled warmly, "It must have taken a lot of pride for Hester to stand up there and know that everyone in the town knew of her secret. In the beginning of the book. Then to walk around with the secret plain as day in her arms, holding onto her skirt, or on her blouse . . . don't you think?" Ryan frowned and nodded, scooping up the last of his potatoes, "I'm sure." Joe smiled, and put the tip of his spoon to his lips, gazing at the fire thoughtfully, "Do you . . . do you think she had a higher understanding? Like she knew that by keeping her secret so open to everyone, she could preserve herself mentally?" Ryan frowned and looked up, frowning at Joe, "Why do you ask that?"

Joe frowned at the fire, and then turned and smiled at Ryan, "I was just thinking, what if she had this knowledge that if she tried to hide or deny the secret, she'd deteriorate just like Roger and the reverend would later?" Ryan frowned, "I suppose that is possible. But who's ever going to know? The book is over, it wasn't in there or anything else Hawthorne wrote, and now Hawthorne's dead. So no one will ever know . . . maybe she did, maybe she didn't . . . it's as simple as that. We'll never know." Joe frowned as Ryan continued to eat his asparagus, "Yes, perhaps we won't. Still, it's a good thing to ponder about, is it not?" Ryan turned to him and frowning as he took another sip of water, now done with his plate, answered, "Honestly, Joe, I think you have been sitting around too long with just your thoughts. You've had far too much time on your hands. Creating a cult then wondering so much about things like that? You definitely need a different hobby."

Joe smiled warmly, "Oh believe me, I've found a new thing to occupy myself with, Ryan. And I can't _wait _to get started on it." Ryan frowned, having a deep dreading feeling about what that thing was . . . still, he smiled weakly, "Good. That should make you very happy." Joe smirked, his grin stretching, "Oh, don't worry. I shall enjoy it _immensely. _And I hope you will too. But for now, let's get these empty dishes out of the way, shall we?" With that Joe stood up, and reaching out, put all of Ryan's silverware onto his dirtied plate before picking the plate up and moving it to rest on top of his own before putting his own used silverware on top of it all and putting it on the platter that had held the dinner bowls of food before putting the cover back on top, "Now, that was excellent, wasn't it?" he turned and smiled at Ryan, who smiled weakly and nodded, "My compliments to the chef. Whoever this 'Lizzie' is, she's one hell of a cook."

Joe chuckled, "Yes, yes she is. Her husbands, all five of them, felt the same way. That is, until they realized that she'd put poisoning in their last suppers." Ryan frowned a little, blinking at Joe who chuckled at his expression, "No worries, Ryan. She doesn't do that to any of our food. You may eat anything she makes for us all freely. Now, moving on . . . although my dinner was very filling, I still think that I have room for some dessert. . ." He pulled out a pager, and gazed down at it, before turning to Ryan, the killer still standing on his side of the table, "Do. . . do you still have room for some dessert?"

Ryan frowned, blinking, and rubbed his slightly extended stomach full of food. That meal _had _filled him up . . . but, since Joe assured him that Lizzie wouldn't poison their food and since he was a bit eager to taste the fantastic cook's dessert, and of course because he didn't know when he would eat next, he nodded, smiling weakly, "Sure. Any idea what we're having?" Joe smiled calmly at him, "Molten Chocolate Lava Cake, homemade, with homemade vanilla ice cream on top. Now, how does that sound?" Ryan blinked at him. To be honest, it sounded amazing . . . it was easily one of his favorite deserts, but he was pretty sure Joe probably already knew that . . . but what Joe might not know was that with all the investigation going on, Ryan hadn't been able to eat one in a long, long time. And of course, if it and the ice cream was homemade, that made it all the better, in Ryan's honest opinion. _"Sounds great, Joe," _he whispered, and lowered his eyes to gaze at the table top with a slight frown. He couldn't have ever imagined a better dessert, but the fact that he'd be eating it with Joe, sucked a lot of the fun out of the occasion.

Joe smiled, "Marvelous. It'll take some time to make, but that will let us allow our food to settle. It will also allow us to talk some more, which I greatly enjoy. . ." he sat slowly, having pressed the button on the pager, and locked eyes with Ryan as Ryan looked back at him, leaning back against the frame of his chair, the clock ticking slowly behind Ryan, the fire crackling as Joe paused. Ryan knew what was about to come. Joe would make some light conversation, and then lead into what the training would entail, he just knew it. He felt like Joe's musings about Hester hadn't been random. They'd been fixed. He had a feeling that Joe was going to lead from that into his next point. So, while he physically leaned against the back of the chair, apparently at ease in contrast to Joe who sat upright, prim and proper, he mentally was on high alert. Joe took in a deep breath and let it out, "Ryan, tell me . . ." he folded his hands together before him on the table and leaned forward, blinking at Ryan, "Do you believe that humans are born with a natural instinct towards deviance and impulsive anger?"

Ryan frowned, blinking, trying to follow Joe's reasoning. In a way, he saw the question as connected to Hawthorne. After all, the puritans who Hawthorne critiqued in his literature were obsessed with evil, and deviance and impulsive anger were definitely considered to have evil qualities in Ryan's mind. Still, that was rather a large leap for Joe from what he'd said about Hester. . . unless he was leading into that point from a different approach. For now, Ryan chose to clarify what Joe might be asking, to play it safe. . . or as safe as one could play it with a psychotic killer. . . he leaned forward, and folded his hands between his legs in his lap, locking eyes with the man, "You mean, are all humans at their core deviant and impulsively angry? Like you?"

Joe smiled calmly and nodded, "Precisely." Ryan frowned and shook his head, leaning back in the chair but keeping his folded hands between his knees, "No, Joe I don't. I don't think all humans are as _sick_ as you or your followers," he muttered in a harsh tone, his eyes hardening at the man. Joe frowned a little and tilted his head. Clearly, Ryan hadn't given him the answer Joe had wanted. But, in Ryan's own defense, the former agent had answered honestly. He honestly didn't believe that all humans were deviant and angry at their cores. There were _good_ people out there with good thoughts and ideas at their cores, even if they may have some negative thoughts.

Ryan knew it. His sister, Jenny, for example, was someone that he felt was like that. Sure, maybe some parts of her could be rude or darker than he would like, but deep down, he felt she was a good person, and that she wouldn't harm anyone ever at all except for in self-defense. As well as Agent Mike Weston. He'd never met a purer, more innocent soul in the FBI. Like Jenny, Ryan knew that Mike wasn't perfect. But he didn't believe that the man had the dark core that Joe had spoken of. He lowered his eyes and smiled weakly at the table top at the thought that he had two examples that countered Joe's previous question, and then Joe cleared his throat, causing his attention to return to the killer, as Joe continued, "Okay, then I have another question for you. Do you think that a human is at their core purely innocent? Do you think that there is a single one of us who may be fully innocent at birth?"

Ryan frowned, and darted his eyes up to Joe's face, blinking. And leaned forward a little bit more, and hunched his back, gazing down beneath the table at his hands. He twiddled his thumbs a little, and then sighed, "No. . . I don't think so. No one is perfect. . . we all have some little bit of tendency to act on impulse and do stupid things. . ." he darted his eyes up again, frowning at Joe long and hard, "But that doesn't mean that everyone's cores are evil!" he snapped defensively. He didn't want to think that Joe could win his previous argument, not even just a little, by winning this one. Joe frowned and tilted his head, "Hold on now, Ryan. You are putting words in my mouth and contorting my previous statements. In them, I used the words impulsive and deviant. I never once used the term 'evil' . . . to be completely honest, I don't believe that true 'evil' exists. But still you will agree that everyone does have a darker side to them, however? No matter how small it may be?" Ryan frowned, thinking over his answer carefully. He didn't want to give into Joe, but if he didn't, he'd look like a fool. After all, his previous statement had been that everyone had those darker tendencies. . . He hung his head, gazing at the tabletop, and whispered a light, "_Yes_."

"Splendid!" Joe said happily, shifting his weight a bit and leaning farther along the table, and Ryan jerked his head up, staring at the excited man, a bit nervous about what made Joe so happy to hear Ryan do that. Joe smiled broadly at Ryan, "I'm so happy, so _ecstatic,_ that we can at least agree on that. Now, moving on concerning the subject . . . _oh this is so exciting to be able to discuss with you! You can't imagine how long I've waited to have this particular conversation with you! . . ._ But, still, concerning that subject, Ryan, to me, I feel like some people have larger dark sides than others. Do you agree with that?" he grinned excitedly and expectantly at Ryan, who frowned slowly and nodded, leaning back a bit away from Joe but not fully relaxing against the chair. Joe smiled even more and continued, speaking a bit quicker now, "I also think that some people get very good at hiding or masking their larger dark sides by morals and norms. Do you agree?" Ryan frowned, narrowing his eyes to slits as he glared at the killer. Something within him told him what Joe was beginning to imply about not just the killer himself, but about Ryan as well . . . and he didn't appreciate what that thing inside of him told him was being implied . . . _"What are you getting at Joe?"_

Joe smiled, as if oblivious to Ryan's actions and the anger they showed, "What I'm getting at is that I always knew that I had a darker side. But I always tried to cover it up with so many masks . . . so that at least to others, I might be able to . . . 'fit in' to society! And let me tell you, Ryan," Joe sighed at that and rolled his eyes, his shoulder's sagging, his mouth opening a little to display a look of exhaustion, "That was so tiring and exhausting, it wore me ragged," he put his hands to his chest, "I felt like I was holding so much of myself back, that no one ever got to see the real me! The real Joe Carroll beneath the mask! So do you know what I finally did?" he grinned at Ryan, who frowned and shook his head with a shrug, his eyes guarded. Joe grinned, "Finally, I chose to embrace it! I ripped off my mask, and I couldn't have been any happier! I'm still happy I did it to this day!" he said excitedly with one of the largest grins Ryan had ever seen him wear, pointing a finger down and touching the table with its tip for emphasis with the last three words, as if to further prove his point.

Ryan frowned at the man. He definitely did not share Joe's enthusiasm. After all, when the man had taken off that mask of his, girls had gotten killed. . . he leaned back against his chair, crossing his arms, an unimpressed and hard look set on his face as he muttered dryly, sarcastically, "_Good for you_." Joe smiled obliviously once more. Ryan frowned, raising an eyebrow. He knew the man wasn't that crazy. He knew that Joe knew he clearly didn't want to talk about this, much less mean the compliment he'd just given. Joe just didn't care. . . Joe smiled and said happily, "Isn't it though?" he leaned over, and grinned, clamping a harsh, hard hand on Ryan's shoulder once more, "That is why I've decided that I'm going to do the same for you." Ryan's eyes widened and he went pale, fear flooding him as he tried to lean back. Joe held him firm, and Ryan stuttered, "_Wh_-_what _. . . _what did you just say to me? Wh-what are you going to do to me Joe. . ._"

Joe smiled calmly, a playful, dark fire burning bright in his eyes, "Ryan, I'm sure that when you came here, you were sure that I would torture you and kill you for all that you've done against me. But that couldn't have been farther from the truth, I feel. You see, I never planned to murder you. You are a kindred spirit to me, you see. I see the same darkness in myself in you. I saw it in you the moment I locked eyes with you in that classroom, when we met outside of that lecture hall, when you came to my house, whenever we met after my escape from prison. . . I've looked into the windows of your soul, Ryan, and what I've seen is _glorious_. . . to be honest, I'm glad that I saw such darkness in your eyes, even if it is currently locked away and diminished. . . after all, I've seen that same darkness, though much stronger, in my own eyes for years, and always had to wonder if there truly was a kindred soul whose darkness was like my own. . . and then I met you, Ryan, and I knew. . . I knew right at that moment, when I looked into your blue eyes . . . I knew your baser, darker instincts, the need within your soul to kill, to hurt, to exert such ferocious and _beautiful_ power over another soul. . . even if you refuse to understand those impulses, needs, and instincts, I know that they're there. And I plan to train you to lower those masks you've put up, to get in touch with your anger, with your want to kill, with your deviance."

Ryan shut his eyes tight and shook his head, "No, Joe . . . you can't. . ." Joe smiled weakly, "I'm sure that you feel that I shouldn't help you, what with all you have done that was against me, but Ryan, social norms can be so brain washing, so controlling, that I understand that those were what caused you to fight the darkness that is so much like the one inside of you. I understand the chains society and your raising has put upon you. That's why I know that the real you, the you that's buried deep inside you, didn't mean to do those things . . . it didn't want to take me down like that. It wanted to keep me making my art. . ." he cradled Ryan's cheeks now with both hands, and held Ryan's face, gazing intently at Ryan, a smile on his face, "I forgive you for ending my killing once. For fighting against it now. And because of that forgiveness, I'm going to unlock you, my brother of darkness. I will set you free from the norms which have become chains upon your soul," he whispered, and Ryan heard the honesty in Joe's words.

Gazing into the eyes of the killer, Ryan knew that the man wasn't just trying to manipulate him . . . he was being deadly serious about his intentions. That was not good. . . Ryan shook his head, reaching up and pulling Joe's hands from his face, leaning back, "You're insane, Joe, delusional. You think you see your own darkness in me. You're projecting it onto me. It's a common psychological mechanism. I'm not the kind of person you perceive me to be Joe, you're just mentally unstable, and that's all." Joe twisted his hands around in Ryan's grip and gripped Ryan's wrists, before sliding down to clasp Ryan's hands, smiling at him intently, shaking his own head, _"No, I'm not,"_ Joe murmured calmly, "Neither one of us is. You're just confused right now, Ryan. You need guidance. And once your masks fall away and you reveal your true self, then you will be the true hero of my tale. Then, you will see your true inner darkness."

Ryan shook his head, "That's not true, Joe. I don't have this inner darkness you speak of, and so you're not going to be drawing anything out of me. My true self is what you see. A man hell bent on putting an end to the destruction you've caused. Putting an end to the bloodshed." Joe sighed, and shook his head, squeezing Ryan's hands as if comforting him, "I know this is a lot to take in, believe me. It's hard to accept. But in time, you'll have to accept it. And it'll all be better for you." Ryan glared at him. He'd had enough of this sick delusion of Joe's . . . he wrenched his hands harshly away, glowering at the man, venom in his eyes and voice, "Oh _really_? And how do you plan to force me to do that?! _Please_, won't you tell me this _brilliant _plan of yours!"

Joe smiled warmly despite such anger, "I'll be removing your mask the same way I removed mine, of course. By making you kill, over and over again. I shall teach you in the art of true bloodshed, Ryan. I'll teach you to get in touch with your inner anger, to bring that emotion out to reach its full potential, and to use that anger to murder countless people, to take the lives of those lesser than you. It's a lot easier than you may think, really, once you know how, once you've done it. . . And oh so satisfying! I will set you free Ryan. Just you wait and see!" Ryan glared at him and hissed icily, "_I will never kill for you, Joe. You may be able to make me come here, you may be able to make me be polite, but I will NOT let you make me kill. You cannot ever make me do that . . ._" at that moment, two men walked in, one holding a covered platter, the other holding fresh burgundy cloth napkins.

Joe shifted his eyes to them, and smiled, "Ahhh, our desserts. They smell heavenly, don't they, Ryan?" Joe smiled warmly at them for a bit longer before turning to Ryan, as if he'd not even been discussing with Ryan the dark subject that had gotten the agent so angry. Ryan glared at him, _"I'm not hungry anymore."_ He stood up quickly, glaring at Joe, "_You've gotten your polite dinner. Now unlatch this chair, and let me leave this infernal room, you bastard." _The next few moments passed by fast . . . one of the men rushed up and slammed a pistol hard into the back of Ryan's head. Ryan's mind spun as he felt them roughly manhandling him, the platter now sitting on the table, and before he knew it he had been forced back down to the chair by the two men, with the leather cuffs forced onto his wrists.

He growled, and jerked at them, glowering at them before turning and glaring furiously at Joe, "LET ME OUT OF THESE! LET ME GO!" he roared so hard the items on the table shook, as he jerked even more viciously at the chains, glaring with pure hatred and anger at the man who stood up from his seat across from him, a frown on Joe's face as the plate of cake that had been prepared for Ryan was placed before the agent, but just a bit further towards Joe's side of the table, so that Ryan couldn't as of yet knock it over.

Joe blinked at him, as the men left, "It would be rude to not eat the cake you said you wanted." Ryan roared out in frustration, glaring furiously at him, "HOW CAN YOU TALK ABOUT ME BEING RUDE OVER CAKE, WHEN YOU'RE THE ONE TALKING ABOUT FORCING ME TO KILL?!" Joe frowned, "Because your rudeness is not justified. Mine is. My rudeness is vital to bring you to your full potential. Yours, is besmirching one woman's hard work at providing you with a good dessert. Therefore, you will be required to eat it."

Ryan glared at him, seething, "Justified my ass! Nothing about you is justified! Nothing! IF YOU HAVE ANY ISSUE WITH THAT, ASK ANYONE IN THE JUSTICE SYSTEM! THEY'LL TELL YOU PRECISELY WHAT YOU ARE AS FAR AS JUSTICE IS CONCERNED! YOU'RE A PSYCHOPATH, A MANIPULATOR! YOU'RR SICK, JOE! YOU'RE JUST SOME MAD DOG HELL BENT ON MAKING THE WORLD SUFFER, ON WATCHING IT GET DESTROYED SLOWLY, ON WATCHING BLOOD FLOW! YOU'RE SICK! YOU HEAR ME?! SICK! YOU MAY BE BRILLIANT, BUT THAT'S ONLY BECAUSE YOU'RE JUST AS MAD AS POE! YOU'RE NUTS! YOU'RE PATHETIC!" He glared, his chains still straining, frustration filling him as he realized he'd accomplished nothing by jerking on them. Joe blinked and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, seeming to wait to see if Ryan was finished ranting before muttering, "Very well, you may think that . . . for now . . . in time I assure you, you will see things quite differently . . . in the meantime, your cake shall grow cold and your ice cream shall melt until you are ready to do the right thing and eat your food and clean your plate." He turned to his own cake and began to eat calmly and quietly.

Ryan growled and jerked at his chains for hours it seemed as Joe ate quietly at his own seat. He tried kicking at the table's legs vainly to move it or topple it over, resulting in only pain in his legs as the piece of furniture held firm. So then he just began to struggle, trying to get up, trying to wrench his chains off from either his arms or from the chair they were connected to, to no avail as well. And yet, he continued. He knew that he was wasting energy, but he didn't care. In fact, he would continue fighting against his bonds until he couldn't fight again, shouting out obscenities at Joe, cursing, and just roaring in anger and frustration when he couldn't think of anything to say.

He knew that eating the cake wasn't a big deal, but it was the idea behind the whole situation he was in that kept him fighting so fervently. He couldn't allow himself to give into what Joe wanted, not even now! Even if for only his own mental stability and security, he had to stand up against the madman in any way he could. After all, if he lost a little of his control over himself and handed it over into Joe's hands, he felt that he would just keep handing over more and more control, sliding further into Joe's trap and letting the man control him entirely. So with that thought, he continued to hurl obscenities and scream and roar at Joe as he struggled, fighting against the chains holding him to where he was sitting with all his might. He would NOT give in! If only to maintain his own sanity in this sea of insanity, he refused to give into Joe! He wouldn't! He couldn't!

Joe frowned as he munched on the delicious cake, watching Ryan with a cool gaze in his eyes. He knew very well that the small task of eating the cake wasn't doing this to Ryan. He knew that it was the thought of succumbing to Joe entirely and allowing himself to be forced to kill and most of all, the idea of enjoying everything as it happened that caused Ryan to be so against obeying him. Ryan was afraid of Joe and the darkness Joe was most likely going to unlock from within Ryan's inner being. Joe slowly smirked though, as he watched the rage and fury Ryan displayed before him, that strong defiance. Despite not wanting to, Ryan was already taking the first step into his own darkness. Because Joe knew, that despite not wanting to, Ryan was getting in touch with his true, honest, inner, dark emotions, and was displaying them before Joe's very eyes. Ryan would be doing that a lot more in his training, to be able to unlock his true inner darkness and reach his potential.

It was because of that knowledge, that Joe decided to let Ryan simply continue in his little tantrum as the man ate silently and calmly until his own dessert was finished. For a few moments, he sat back and watched as Ryan, with his eyes now shut tight, continued to try to break free of his bonds, roaring in frustration and anger. Then the man sighed and turning, walked to his desk, pulling open a top drawer. He would let Ryan tire himself out, ride out those emotions. Then, when Ryan was ready to calm down and listen, he'd continue with their conversation. He pulled out from the drawer a thick black beautiful leather journal with a burgundy J stamped on the front. And opening it up, he smiled, smoothing his hand over the smooth, beautiful lined paper inside. Turning, he let his fingers dance over the brown glass jar of black ball point pens on his desk and picked one up and began to scrawl in the journal, sitting down at his desk, leaning back in the comfy office chair and resting one foot, his right one, over his bent left knee as he began to write.

First he put the date, and then he began to log in his observations of Ryan's insistent denial of what Joe had pointed out about him. He wrote about Ryan's rebellious behavior and spirit, as he glanced up at the man struggling at the table. He let a sly smile cross over his face. Joe knew that this was a large undertaking, trying to get Ryan to get in touch with his true inner darkness. That's why he hadn't even attempted it until now. But now that he was doing it, he planned to log in anything relevant, or that he just felt like writing about the situation. So that later, should he try this again, he'd be able to refer to his notes. He smirked. Of course, he felt that no one would be able to ever compare to his brother in darkness.

About thirty minutes later Joe had finished writing in his journal, had returned its pen to its jar, and had laid the closed book flat on his desk before him. He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and his hands folded and pressed against his lips, watching as Ryan's movements slowed as the man panted and continued to jerk at his chains, now no longer roaring or shouting, just silently struggling. Finally, Ryan collapsed against the back of the chair, head hung forward, his chin against his chest as he breathed hard with his eyes closed. Then, as if finding more will to fight, he snarled and jerked forward again, writhing some more, eyes shut tight, teeth gritted. But it was too much of a struggle now for him to maintain, and he collapsed again, this time with his head tossed against the back of the chair, gazing with frustrated, tear filled eyes at the ceiling of the room.

Ryan choked out a weak sob as he gazed at the ceiling. How had he let all of this happen?! All he wanted was to be back at his home at Brooklyn, or perhaps even drinking with Tyson at the man's secret abode. Instead, he was here, in the office of his worst enemy, who was currently laboring under the delusion that Ryan had this "darkness" within himself. And to bring that "darkness" out, that enemy was going to try to force Ryan to kill people, completely, 100% convinced that he was helping Ryan. Ryan closed his eyes and gave a shuddering breath, whimpering a little as the tears raced down. He was exhausted, upset, frustrated, and his heart fell like it was going to fall out of his chest, he'd been struggling so much. The agent could hear his heart beat pounding in his ears, a reprove to him for overworking the organ and its pacemaker. Finally, after taking a few more deep breaths and sniffling, Ryan turned to Joe, his eyes full of exhaustion and emptiness.

Joe smiled, and Ryan just sighed. He would have done more, but at that moment, all he could feel was exhaustion, his anger having been spent in his struggle, and the calm look in Joe's eyes did not do anything productive for his nerves. Ryan didn't want to give in to Joe now, not even if he felt it was just a temporary succumbing. But . . . he was beginning to think that if he didn't, Joe would keep him chained to that infernal chair until he perceived that Ryan had calmed down, seen "reason" and accepted things. So at least for now. . . Ryan would submit. He'd fight harder against Joe later. And he was absolutely certain that he'd never kill for the psycho. He'd rather die first.

Joe leaned forward on his desk, his right foot moving down to be flat on the floor, seeming to sense Ryan's thoughts regarding submission, "Ready to be a good trainee, now, Ryan?" he murmured. Ryan frowned at him, blinking. He didn't like that word: "trainee". Joe seemed to sense that, and shrugged, smiling calmly at him, "Really, you don't have to be my trainee . . . you could be my pupil, my student, my protégé, my apprentice . . . Anything you'd like. That decision is up to you. It won't change what I'm going to do for you." Ryan frowned at him, gritting his teeth before mumbling as he diverted his gaze, _"I'd like none of them. . ." _

Joe frowned, and acted as if he didn't hear Ryan, turning his head and leaning closer with his right ear facing Ryan, putting a hand up and behind that ear as if to hear him better, gazing up at the ceiling in "confusion", "Beg your pardon?" Ryan frowned. He knew Joe had heard him. So why was he giving Ryan a chance to recant his statement? It was then that the reality hit him. Joe wasn't going to start "teaching" Ryan tomorrow. He was going to start tonight. . . He'd started the moment Ryan had been chained to the chair, if not earlier. . . This was just another lesson. Ryan frowned a bit more, and sighed, his shoulders sagging. Well, this lesson he'd be sure to pass . . . he was _so_ ready to leave Joe's presence. . . "Student is fine. . . I guess . . . out of those anyway." Joe smiled calmly at him, turning to him and lowering his hand to fold it with his other hand before him on the desk, "Well, if you brainstorm and find any other names you think I'd approve of that you would like more than those I've listed, feel free to inform me of them." Ryan frowned and nodded slowly, "Alright. . ."

Joe smiled warmly, and put his palms firmly on the top of his desk, hoisting himself up out of the chair, "Well, I have only a few more things to inform you about and then it's off to bed with you! We have a very busy day tomorrow Ryan. . ." he chuckled at that, noticing how Ryan noticeably tensed and a look of anger entered his eyes. He knew what the man feared. Those pathetic social norms still had a firm grip on the poor man. But Ryan had no reason to fear, "Oh no, Ryan, you don't understand! Contrary to what you think, I shall not have you kill on the first full day of your training! We will simply go for a little hike! You see, I plan to take my time teaching you to embrace your inner darkness. So we'll start small. How's that sound?" He turned and opened the drawer he'd taken his journal from, and began to rummage around, looking for something else as Ryan gritted his teeth.

It did sound alright to Ryan, to not be killing the next day, but still. . . that didn't mean that Joe was giving up on the idea of him killing. . . and so he had to protest, "_Joe, please. . . why not just kill me? you know I won't be a good student. I'll only cause issues . . . please. . . Joe, see reason," _he whispered with tears slowly trickling down his cheeks, shaking at his chains, _"Look, I've messed up and it's just my first night. . ."_ Despite his firm resolve that Joe couldn't make him kill, Ryan knew that the man had the kind of determination that could put Ryan through hell as the man tried to force him to commit murder. And Ryan knew that even if he didn't go along with what Joe had planned, the psychological scars would be enormous. Oh how he wished he could make Joe see reason, that he couldn't be taught to kill, that he wasn't like one of the man's followers. Oh how he wished Joe would just release him, and either kill him or just let him go.

"But that's just it, Ryan. This is only your first night, my brother," Joe murmured, and gripping a leather bound journal with a white embroidered R on it, and that, all but for the letter, matched his own, pulled it out, closed and locked the drawer, and walked around to stand with a smile on the other side of his desk, leaning against the piece of furniture with his arms crossed and the book in one hand, a playful smirk on his face, "I'm sure you'll get better over time. You have great potential. I knew that the first time we met." Ryan frowned, and diverted his eyes to the dying fire, sighing. Knowing that for tonight, Joe couldn't be dissuaded. The best thing he could do now was just give up, get some rest, and try to dissuade the man after perhaps a few days. To just do what he wanted for now.

Joe walked over, and leaned against the table, placing his one empty palm flat against it, setting the book on the table as well before placing his other hand on it and pressing over the R, "I'm curious about something, Ryan. Tell me, do you remember how you felt? When you were shaking your chains? I should have asked you how you felt before, right after you were done with your little tantrum, but I suppose now's still a good time."

Ryan frowned and turned to him, his guard shooting up as he leaned away from Joe's general direction, leaning closer to the fire, the flames flickering and casting different shadows over the blue eyed man's face, "What do you mean by that? Why do you want me to do that? To tell you my feelings?" Joe smiled warmly, "Just tell me." Ryan narrowed his eyes a little, trying to force a fight that he didn't really feel within him into his gaze, "And what does it matter? How I felt?" Joe smiled calmly still, "Trust me, it does. Although . . . you may not understand right now why. . ." Ryan frowned and lowered his gaze, focusing on a corner of the rug that lay behind Joe's empty chair, "Alright . . . alright, I'll tell you. . ." he hung his head and shut his eyes.

After a few moments of gathering his thoughts, the man sighed and opened his eyes, focusing once more on the corner of the rug, watching as the shadows from the dying fire in the fireplace danced over it, "Irritation. . . Frustration. . ." Joe's hand latched firmly onto Ryan's shoulder, and the man smiled, stroking the man gently through the shirt as the killer grinned at him, "Good, good! You're doing excellently Ryan! Now, out of those feelings, what emotions did you feel? Please, focus on those." Ryan frowned, blinking, not even trying to shrug off Joe's hand, "Anger . . . umm . . ." "Keep going, you're doing great!" Joe said happily, "You can't say the wrong thing, Ryan, trust me. Go on!" Ryan frowned, and turning, faced the man head on, his blue eyes locked onto Joe's own dark ones, "Sadness . . . a feeling of being upset. . . determination . . ." Joe smiled, flashing Ryan his yellowed teeth, and tilted his head, eyes alight with excitement, "Good! And what emotions do you typically link with determination Ryan?"

Ryan blinked, and his eyes darted back to the rug's edge, although he kept his head facing Joe, "Drive, I suppose . . . courage? Errr . . ." he shifted uncomfortably from one side to the other. He hadn't tried to analyze his emotions in this much depth before. It felt foreign to him. Strange . . . not right. . . Perceiving Ryan's obvious discomfort, Joe smiled a smaller smile, pity in his eyes, "We'll come back to that later, Ryan. What do you feel right now?" "Confusion," Ryan sighed, slumping back against his chair, head hung, tears now leaking out of his eyes in his exhaustion and sadness, "Exhaustion. . ." "And what's linked to those?" Ryan gazed at Joe, unshed tears shining in his eyes, drying tear streaks on his cheeks, "What's the point, Joe? What's the point of this exercise? Please, tell me. I . . . I'll do the exercise, I just. . . I want to know. . . what's the point?" "I'll let you know later. Now continue," Joe remarked sternly, frowning at him. Ryan sighed and rolled his back around and gazed at his lap, defeat written on his face, "Fear, uneasiness, sadness. . .defeat, desperation . . ." Joe smiled and rubbed his shoulder once more, "Good. Now back to determination, anything else other than what you said before?" Joe said a bit eagerly.

Ryan frowned and turned to him, blinking. Searching his mind . . . then it came to him, "Power. . . Pride. . . Passion. . ." Joe smiled and patted his shoulder, "Well done, Ryan. Well done. That's enough exploring your emotions for now. Please, finish your dessert." He turned to the cake, his hand left Ryan's shoulder, and he pushed the plate towards the former agent. Ryan frowned at him, then turned to it and grimaced. The cake was sunken in. a sopping mess in a sea of melted ice cream. He gritted his teeth. He was sure it was cold and by now unappetizing. But he knew Joe wouldn't let him leave without finishing it, so he picked up the smaller golden spoon that had been brought with the cake and set at his spot at the table, and began to eat.

The chains made it difficult and the cake was mushy by now and cold, but Ryan managed to get it all down. Reaching out and straining more against his chains, he grabbed his water glass and downed the rest of the now lukewarm liquid thirstily. Joe smiled, having stood beside him with his hands folded behind his back, the black journal lying on the table top, the whole time the man ate, "Marvelous, Ryan. Well done." Ryan turned to him, and frowned, "that doesn't mean I'm happy with what you plan to do to me, Joe." Joe smiled calmly, and took one step forward, picking up Ryan's plate and stacking it on top of his, "I don't expect you to be. Not quite yet, anyway. But no worries. We won't even mention killing unless you bring it up for this entire upcoming week, Ryan." Ryan frowned, "Why? What are we doing? Torturing?" Joe frowned and turned to him, raising an eyebrow amusedly as his lips quirked into a smile, "You want to move onto that so soon, Ryan?"

Ryan frowned at him, "No. But what are we doing? Tell me. . . _Please _tell me Joe." Joe frowned, considered not telling the man, and then decided to go ahead and tell Ryan, to give the man a bit of reassurance as a reward for finishing the dessert, "We're going to go for little hikes through the woods or stay here at the house and just discuss things. Just hang around one another. Get to know each other a bit better. Get used to one another. You know, Ryan. . ." He smiled a little more, "I really do enjoy spending time with you, even if you are a challenge. To be completely honest, the challenge makes you all the more interesting of a person to talk to. It's such a relief, such an enjoyment, for me to know that I can just chat with you almost any time I'd like to now. Makes this place truly my favorite place on earth."

Ryan frowned at Joe, blinking at the man who smiled calmly back. Reaching out, Joe patted his shoulder before turning his attention to the book on the table and picking it up and showing it to Ryan. Ryan frowned, gazing at the journal as Joe went on, opening the book and revealing the blank pages within to the former agent, "Now, our walks and discussions will primarily focus on you, your past, and your emotions. I will primarily focus on your emotions, and getting you more in touch with them, and more willing to show them to others, particularly me. Because let's face it, you have more walls than a high rise skyscraper." Ryan frowned, blinking, as he waited for Joe to quit chuckling at his joke, and asked, "So what's the book for?" Joe smiled and set the book down gently on the table in front of Ryan, it at that point being closed, and as Ryan reached out slowly and picked it up with his chained hands and began to flip through it slowly, gazing at the blank pages seeming to stare up at him and mock him in his current situation, Joe walked behind Ryan, and rested his hands on the man's shoulders, "That's going to be your journal. I want you to write in it every day. Just your thoughts on what's going on. I will read your entries at the end of each week. But don't hold back because of that. Just write whatever you want. You can even right "fuck you, Joe" or "go to hell" if you feel like it. You can even doodle if you want, but please be sure to write something. As for any other requirements, you only need to fill out three pages each day, and you can always write more."

Ryan frowned, "Why do you want me to do this?" _"Because I care about your thoughts on things, Ryan,"_ Joe murmured in his ear, "Now. . ." he clapped Ryan's shoulders, "You need to go get some sleep. We go for our hike at 6:00 tomorrow morning! That's when I'll expect you in front of the house in some clothes that you can exercise in. Roderick will go get you at 5:50 from your room." Ryan frowned and nodded, "Okay. I have a question. . . do you want me to write in this journal tonight?" Joe paused, leaning back a little in thought, and Ryan slowly turned, blinking up at the man, frowning. Joe then smiled and turned to him, "How about, you promise to write five pages, and include things about tonight? If you do that, you don't have to write tonight. You can just write those pages tomorrow." Ryan nodded, "Yes sir."

Joe smiled at him warmly, then leaned forward and undid the cuffs, "Alright, time to get you out of these. Hopefully you can earn the right not to have to wear them soon." He then leaned down and unlatched the braces for the chair and then helped Ryan out of the chair. Ryan blinked, and followed Joe slowly as he was led the way from the room. He tilted his head down and gritted his teeth ,rubbing his sore wrists a little, holding the journal beneath his right arm, pinned to his body via the elbow of that arm, the bandage on his wrists having gotten pulled back a bit in his struggles, some blood leaking out from the reopened scabs underneath the bandages, as they moved down the hall.

Joe noticed as he turned his head to blink at Ryan, and whispered, "Those are going to need some ointment, I'm afraid. I also would like to get some for your ankles. After I drop you off in your room, I'll go find some ointment for you and bring it to you, alright?" Ryan nodded, whispering, _"Thank you_._"_ Joe then turned and kept walking and rummaged in his pocket for his pager, and pulled it out, moving his arm back and holding it out to Ryan, not even looking back at the man as he got closer to Ryan's door, "And if you need anything else, just push that red button and someone will come. They'll supply what you need if it's reasonable." Ryan nodded, holding the pager in his hands, looking up and looking at Joe's head, "Thank you, Joe. That's very thoughtful." Joe turned his head and smiled, "Oh, you're very much welcome, Ryan. And, if I may say so, you're being very polite, Ryan. Thank you."

At that moment, they reached Ryan's door, and Joe pulled a key from his pocket that was similar to the one Roderick had had, and slid it into the lock, "While we're here, is there anything you'd like to change about your room?" _"No sir,"_ Ryan whispered as the door was opened and Joe stepped aside to allow him to enter. He was a bit surprised to find Joe following him into the room, having expected Joe to close the door and go get the ointment immediately. He turned, blinking at Joe in confusion, as Joe smiled calmly, his hand resting on the door knob, gazing around the room and then looking at Ryan before slurring, his happiness obvious, _"It's good to have you here, Ryan. Where you belong." _Ryan frowned, "Where I belong, Joe? Is that honestly what you think?" Joe smiled, _"Of course. Don't worry. Soon, you will see why you belong here. . ."_ he took a step forward, and patted Ryan's cheek, smiling at him as his warm breath hit Ryan's face as he murmured a phrase of "reassurance", "_You will_." Turning, he walked out, "I'll bring you the ointment, Ryan. Just get ready for bed. Get on into the covers if I'm not back right away, and if you're too tired to wait up for me, just go on to sleep." Ryan frowned as Joe slammed the door closed and locked it.

Turning, trying to avoid looking at the camera near that side of the room as it turned and focused on him, he undid the button down and pants, and pulled them off, tossing them into a corner before kicking his shoes off and walking to the dresser. After slipping on a black muscle shirt and leaving on his boxers, Ryan approached the bed. He slowly and gently pulled back the comforter, the soft material crinkling under his fingers. Then he pulled back two red silk sheets as well as a red thermal blanket that lay on top of them. Then he gazed at the bed's silky surface, and ran his fingers over it in gentle circles before climbing into the bed.

He groaned a little as his older, tired body sank into the memory foam mattress. Although he was sure this had to be the most comfortable bed he'd ever lie down in, he was sure that he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night. He just knew that his mind would start reeling with what Joe had told him this evening as soon as his head hit the silk pillow lying at the head board, so he was sure that sleep would elude him. Still, he sighed and pulled the covers up, resting his head on its side on the pillow and pulling the sheets over him, enveloping him in smooth warmth. As time passed, he gazed at the alarm clock, trying to push thoughts of what Joe had planned for him from his mind. Soon, however, he found that he didn't have to try so hard, as he felt his mind go hazier and hazier. Soon he felt his eyelids begin to droop. And before Ryan Hardy knew it, he was in a dreamless, sound sleep. The last thing he heard was the camera whirring as it focused on him. Moments later, Joe Carroll opened the door.

The man walked in and walked over to Ryan, gazing down at the man who was sleeping quietly under the sheets with a soft smile on his face, watching as Ryan's lips moved just slightly with every sigh in his sleep. Joe smiled calmly, and ran the back of his hand over Ryan's aged cheek. The cheek of his hero of darkness. He smirked. Ryan certainly was quite a prize to have finally caught. Without a doubt, Ryan was his most precious treasure. He smiled warmly, as his thoughts danced darkly with what he and Ryan could create. The art, the pain, the death, and all the beauty.

"_Oh Ryan," _he murmured, and ran his fingers lightly through the man's hair, and Ryan twitched in his sleep, grunting a little. He chuckled, _"The beauty you will create. . . will be EXTRAORDINARY." _he fished Ryan's aged hands out from the covers, and gazed at them, rubbing the backs of them gently, feeling through his own fingers the blood, the life force, pulsing beneath Ryan's skin. He smiled, gently removed the bandages from the wrists, gazed at the flesh that had been marred by those cold hand cuffs, and began to rub the white, scentless ointment into them, Ryan's limbs now putty in his hands, just as their owner, his true brother of darkness, would be in due time. He chuckled, and smiled at Ryan, who breathed gently in his deep sleep.

Sure, Ryan would become his own true killing self, but once Joe brought the raging beast inside of Ryan out, he'd be sure to keep it under control and in a tight rein. Chuckling, he slid Ryan's hands under the sheets and laid them on the bed. After pulling the sheets off enough near the foot of the bed and sliding Ryan's legs out from under it, careful not to awaken the drugged man, he stripped the man's ankles of their bandages as well and rubbed them with the ointment gently. He closed his eyes, breathing calmly, and understanding that Ryan right now could be easily murdered by him. Whether Ryan knew it or not, he was at Joe's mercy.

Tonight had been the first step of unlocking Ryan's true emotions. Joe'd kept the man's emotions constantly in flux, knowing just what buttons to push and nerves to hit to keep him under control but at the same time out of control. He smirked. This may be a big task, but he could handle it, he was sure. He slid Ryan's ankles back beneath the covers. Turning, he switched of Ryan's light, fixed an alarm for 5:25 AM on the man's alarm clock, and left the man where he lay on the bed. Opening and closing the door behind him, he slid the key into the lock, smirking. Locking his subject inside.

Turning, he headed back to his office and to the room that lay beyond it, his true bedroom, not the ratty one he'd slept with Emma in, to get some well-earned sleep. Just before he went to that room, though, as he passed through the office, he turned and walked over to the fireplace, gazing at the dying, struggling fire. Turning, he gripped the ear of the pitcher that held the water that remained from dinner, and turning, frowned hard, his eyes pitiless for the dying embers as he mercilessly threw the water onto them, murdering them. As smoke rose up from them as the dying flames passed away, he smiled, turned, put the pitcher back, and headed to his room.


	7. The Spider and The Ant

**Disclaimer: I do not own the show "The Following", Polo Ralph Lauren, or Blake Shelton.**

Dear Reader,

I'm sorry that it has taken so long for this chapter update. However, I have put a lot of work into it and I hope that it is a joy for you to read. I hope that you like it and review it, and I would like to take this moment now to thank **Transparent_Existance **and **quasifictionalist** for their reviews! Thank you so much! A special thanks to **Transparent_Existance**. You are an awesome author. I love reading your stories. You are both an inspiration to my writing and you help me grow as a writer! I dedicate this chapter to you!

Trikkster

* * *

"_Yeah the boys round here drinking that ice cold beer. Talking bout girls, talking bout trucks, running them red dirt roads out, kicking up dust! The boys round here sendin' up a prayer to the man upstairs. Backwoods legit, don't take no shit. Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco spit!" _The new song called "Boys Round Here" sung by Blake Shelton blared out of the red ford pickup's speakers, filling the cab of the large truck with the sound of the country singer's voice. The woman in the passenger seat sighed deeply, wearing a yellow plaid shirt that was tied just below her breasts with nothing on underneath it besides a strapless bra, making the shirt a mid-drift shirt that showed off her newest piercing, her belly button ring, which was a simple silver ring with a blue stone that slid freely along said ring. The shirt didn't leave hardly anything up to one's imagination regarding the tan girl's body, and neither did the super short blue jean shorts that had one hole on each thigh and whose frayed ends only came to about five inches down the girl's thighs.

She had blonde hair that she'd put baby powder in to hide the fact that the hair hadn't been washed in three days. The long torrents of golden hair fell in waves over her tanned shoulders. She sighed and reaching up, tucked the strands of hair behind each of her ears, which were adorned with many piercings. While one ear, the left ear, only held one cubic zirconia crystal stud on its tragus and a long silver hoop hanging from the large bottom rim of the outer ear lobe, the other ear had multiple rings running up the outer rim of her ear, beginning at the bottom rim of the ear lobe with a silver hoop that matched the one on her other ear and working their way up the rim while gradually diminishing in size and varying in styles. That ear had a simple steel stud stuck in its tragus. She had one piercing on her left eyebrow, a simple band piercing through the skin and moving beneath it to come up at the other end of the band. On the side of the upper ridge of her right nostril was a piercing hole that contained a prim red colored fake crystal stuck on a ring that looped over the bottom edge of the ridge and came back to meet its other end within the nose hole. She also had one onyx looking fake crystal stud sticking out over the left side of her upper lip. She also had a steel stud on the end of her tongue. Some of the piercings in her ear she'd done herself. Everything else, she'd paid her cousin to do. He had used her to practice on before opening up his own shop back home.

She'd also had her cousin do the skulls and roses tattoo racing up her left arm and wrapping around it, the long tribal tattoo running up her right leg, and the name of her ex set into a beautiful heart that was over her left breast. She planned to get that last tattoo removed whenever she could get enough money. But, considering she only got minimum wage and tips currently at a greasy local pub as a bartender and waitress, that wasn't happening any time soon. So for now, she let the stupid brand remain, as she propped her flip flopped feet on the dashboard of the vehicle, the window on her side of the truck open as she took a drag on the cigarette in her hand. She felt the heat enter her for a moment before moving the cigarette away and breathing out into the wind as the trees flew by, before turning and gazing sadly at the cheap Old Navy black flip flops that had smudges of red dirt on them pressed against the front windshield of the truck. Flexing her right foot's black painted toes, she gazed at her feet as her tribal looking silver toe ring around her second toe on her right foot shone in the sunlight. She closed her hazel eyes and laid her head back against the seat. And felt a calloused hand fall on her left thigh, and run up and down it.

As the song continued on, the girl turned and looked blankly at her current boyfriend. The boy had dark brown hair that was shaggy and just looked ragged, like he'd just climbed out of bed. He had a bit of prickly stubble along his jaw line due to him not having shaved in about a week. He had murky brown eyes that had a dazed look about them that let you know he was either so drunk or so high that his brain wasn't all there at the moment. He had a lean, un-muscular figure that was slowly forming a beer gut in the abdomen area and that had a farmer's tan which left his arms unevenly tan and his torso as pale as a piece of paper. Today he wore an old red plaid shirt that he had left unbuttoned and that showed his less-than-impressive torso that had about three holes in the front and two in the back. He also wore ratty blue jeans that he'd been wearing for two days straight. His name was Jimmy, and he frequently had dip in his mouth, if not a joint or beer. Right now he chose the last of the group, as he turned and pressed the end of the Budweiser bottle to his lips and ducked his head back, his Adam's Apple moving up and down repeatedly as he guzzled the drink down. The girl gritted her teeth. Jimmy'd drunk at least 6 gallons of beer in the past three days. It made her wonder and fear at what his blood alcohol level currently was.

He grinned, wiped his mouth on his left sleeve, and snaked that arm around her back. She tried not to grimace at the grossness of his actions, and turning, took another dragon her cigarette and breathed the smoke gently out the window. "Feet off Sally's dashboard, Jenn," A harsh voice on the other side of Jimmy muttered darkly to her. The girl, Jenny, frowned and slowly moved her feet back down as Jimmy scoffed at the other man, "Come on Tim! Don't be such a pansy!" "You can be disgusting when you get _your _new car, Jim. Until then, my car, my rules," Tim snarled, his anger unwavering. Jenny sighed, and gazed at Tim, "Calm down, Tim. I'll keep them off. I'm sorry." Tim scoffed, "You better be." Tim was a blonde haired 25 year old and the eldest of the group of three, with Jimmy being just 22 and Jenny being 20 years old. And he definitely looked the best out of Jimmy and himself.

Tim had been a football star who had prided himself in his muscles in the sport and valued them now. He paid a gym fee to go work out two times each day, pumping his muscles and building his body up, resulting in a taunt, muscular, attractive, tan figure (he valued the tanning booth as well at the gym). He had bright blonde hair that he kept dyed just right and kept spiked up on the top of his head, and had on a Polo Ralph Lauren button down shirt that was made of a soft, smooth black material with a red polo man on the pocket area, and ripped Abercrombie jeans, along with black Nike shoes with red checks on the sides. On his left hand ring finger was a thick high school ring with a black onyx stone in it with the hometown school mascot, a raging bull, on it as a silhouette. On his other ring finger, he wore a football championship ring, having been the captain and quarterback of the winning team his senior year. He had one cubic zirconia stud on his left ear's lobe. After high school, he went to work in a car garage, which was where he'd learned how to make his red ford truck, "Sally", precisely how he wanted it to be. As Jenny watched the extremely attractive male, he lifted the left hand that he'd had resting on the open window's sill which also held a cigarette to his lips and took in a quick drag on it before blowing the smoke out the window.

The girl turned her gaze back to her boyfriend as he leaned closer, grinning goofily at her and revealing his yellowed teeth, "Sorry 'bout Tim, Jenn. When I get my car, you can put your feet _wherever_ you want." She frowned a little, blinking. _I imagine. After all, you never get nice cars. _Jimmy always got old beaten up muscle cars. With his last car, the passenger door hadn't even opened. If she'd wanted to get in, she'd either have to go through the passenger side window or the driver's side door. And the back seat had been so ripped up and tattered that it had definitely not been an adequate seat at all. The only good things about the car in Jenny's mind was that it had air conditioning and heating, had a good radio, and was able to be driven. As he leaned in for a kiss, Jenny pressed her lips against his, trying to push her negative thoughts aside in order to properly respond to his kiss. She tried to remember when she'd been excited about dating Jimmy, as she often did to try to keep him happy. For a long time she'd been doing this. Her and Jimmy had grown up together, after all, and she didn't want to shatter him emotionally. But quite frankly, she had to wonder how long she could keep it up pleasing him, and had to wonder why she had dated him at all in the first place. She had to wonder if she'd only gone out with him to rebel against her father who had forever claimed that she could do better than trailer trash, which was precisely what Jimmy was. She didn't want to think that way. She didn't want to think of the fact that she planned to dump him within days of returning home. . . Jimmy pulled away from her and flashed her his best smile . . . She didn't want to admit that she was happy it hadn't been a long kiss. She sighed and turned to the window and took a drag on her cigarette again, before blowing the smoke out of her lips again, slow and smooth out. It seemed that lately she didn't want to do a lot of stuff she found herself doing. And she always felt so awful and down about herself afterwards.

"You look like a dragon when you do that, you know that?" Tim's sister Krissi said from the back seat. Jenny frowned and turned her head, blinking at the girl who hung over the front seat's back, blinking at her with a dazed, high look on her face. The girl had thin brown hair that always hung stringy and oily down from the top of her head. She also had super thick glasses, braces, and a great amount of acne on her face, including regular pimples and blackheads alike. She had been lying asleep across the back seat of the truck, smoking a joint and drinking some beer as she wore one of her brother's light blue muscle shirts which had been torn and had gotten oil smeared on them, which was why Tim had willingly given it to her, and some too small soffee shorts. Krissi was a high school junior who had no remarkable beauty assets, failing grades, and a completely clueless attitude that was borderline retardation. Combined, those traits destined her to be a loser and a loner who smoked pot and drank cheap beer in her free time. It was well known to all who knew her that if she didn't tag along with her older brother Tim whenever it was possible, she'd just be forgotten by everyone. As Jenn looked at Krissi, the girl grinned crookedly and took a drag on her own joint, blowing it out slowly, "See? Like that!" Jenn smiled weakly and nodded before turning around and as she faced the outside world, rolling her eyes at the girl's shenanigans. Damn, was this all her life had allotted to after 20 years? Sitting in a car with a grouchy driver, a boyfriend she didn't really but who was crazy about her, and an almost completely mentally retarded teen in the back seat getting high? She supposed it was all her life had allotted too. What feared and disgusted her more than that though was the fact that this could be all her life ever allotted to.

The three had just gone to the Atlantic Coast in Virginia and were on their way back home now, driving through Havenport currently in order to get further down to their hometown, Adams, Tennessee. It'd been a short, quick three day vacation, and while Jenny could admit it'd been a bit of fun, she'd also easily gotten tired of Tim, Jimmy, and Krissi. In short, the sooner she could get home and away from her travel partners, the better. She gave a ragged sigh and took a drag on her cigarette before blowing out smoke from the window again. She supposed that one good thing about the vacation had been that while they were on the beach, they'd been either so drunk or high the whole time that the others hadn't bothered her or gotten on her nerves very much.

As Krissi made yet another comment of Jenny looking like a dragon, Tim growled and gripping the steering wheel tightly in his right hand, slammed his left hand hard into the rim of the wheel, having dropped his cigarette outside of the car as he drove. "Shut up and go back to sleep, Kriss," the blonde haired man snarled, and Jimmy chuckled, turning to him, "Getting a bit feisty, Tim?" Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, and continued to drive at a faster speed, _"I'm fine." _Jenny frowned. Tim always got angrier and angrier, not calmer and calmer. And he was pretty pissed off today. She knew he was tired from driving the truck through the night so that they could get back home sooner rather than later, but that was really his fault. He wouldn't let anyone else ever drive his precious "baby" of a truck.

If there were two things that Tim valued more than his own looks, it was his car and his girlfriends. He always wanted the best looking of both. He always had dated the popular girls in high school, and had always had the best car. His car ownerships started with being given by his parents a black Trans Am in high school when he turned sixteen. It'd been nice, and he'd fixed it up to the point where he'd been able to sell it for enough money to get a brand new mustang convertible. Then, at graduation, his parents had bought him the Ford F150 he currently drove. He'd quickly replaced the "too small" wheels with higher ones, had had black flames put on the "too dull" sides, had changed out the "shitty" sound system for one that made the whole truck rock and vibrate and bounce, and had reupholstered the "lame" leather seats for new cloth seats that were black with red stripes that would match the truck better. Finally, he'd had a decal made in tribal style letters for the black tinted back window. The decal had been made to show the truck's name which he finally felt it deserved once he was done with it: "Sally". It wasn't a secret to anyone that he valued Sally more than almost anyone else. The only person he possibly liked more than the truck was Krissi. At least, Jenny hoped that it was like that. Sometimes she had to wonder. That devotion to his truck had caused Tim to almost go to jail.

Tim had been ready to marry the last high school girlfriend he'd had. She had been homecoming queen and prom queen, and it had appeared that he actually had strong feelings for her. But then, he'd cut a curve too quick for her, and her margarita drink had spilled all over his new seats. He'd slammed on the brakes, had dragged her out of the car, and had started to beat her, calling her a stupid whore and a clumsy bitch. Only when she was cringed on the ground constantly apologizing to him had he backed off, took her engagement ring roughly from her finger, breaking the finger in the process, and gotten into his car, before leaving her on the side of the old back road to walk the twenty miles back to her house. At first her family had urged her to file a report and take him to court for domestic violence. But she'd still loved him despite what he'd done, and had refused. That incident had kept Jenny, who had been thinking of coming on to Tim if Donna, the girl, hadn't worked out with him relationship-wise, at a safe enough distance. She didn't think that she could handle that side of Tim at all.

Krissi ignored her brother's remark, and leaned up, draping an arm over the seat and holding out a copy of the morning newspaper. It was a federal newspaper instead of a local one that she'd gotten from a convenient store they'd stopped at, "Check this out. An FBI guy's gone. He was the one working the Carroll case. . . Ryan . . . something." Jenny frowned and leaned forward, gripping the slightly rumpled paper and bringing it to herself to stare at the front of the paper. She may not amount to anything more than trailer trash in her lifetime, destined to sleep with rednecks and ride around in trucks which had had way too much work put into them, but she did pride herself on keeping up with the news. So, she flicked the butt of her cigarette out the window and unfolded the paper. She'd followed the Carroll case since the man had first gotten out of prison. Therefore the face that took up most of half of the front page was a face she knew well. She'd read his book after all.

Ryan Hardy's hardened aged face frowned up at her from the newsprint. To her, it was aged, but attractive all the same. Or, definitely more attractive than most boys she knew. The headline above the large picture read, "FBI AGENT STILL MISSING. RUMORED TO HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY CARROLL'S FOLLOWERS". "What is it saying about the poor guy, Agent Youswell?" Jimmy joked at her as he nudged her side, taking another swig of his drink. She rolled her eyes, and began to read aloud to those in the truck cab:

_"Early Friday morning, former FBI Agent Ryan Hardy's car was found running but empty in the parking lot of the Goldenhouse Books factory in Boston, a factory that hasn't been in use for over 60 years. Although not much information has been released at this time by the FBI, it has been speculated that Mr. Hardy has been kidnapped by followers belonging to the cult that has formed around the recently escaped convict, serial killer, and former professor of Winslow University, Joseph Carroll, who in 2003 murdered 14 young women as he taught at the university. Recently, Carroll has murdered Sarah Fuller, a previous victim and survivor, and his former defense attorney, Olivia Warren. The first received multiple stab wounds and had her eyes removed by Carroll who considers inoculation as a tribute to Edgar Allan Poe's literary works. The second was strangled by Carroll after helping him escape capture by the FBI. His followers have killed multiple victims, presumably under some form of control by Carroll. The reasons behind Carroll targeting Hardy to the extent of having Hardy kidnapped vary. Some speculations include . . . continued on page 9A." _

She frowned and flipped quickly to the prescribed page, and her breath hitched at the face that gazed up from the news print at her. Smiling calmly up from the page was Joe Carroll. They'd chosen a picture that showed a dashing smile and that had him wearing an overall calm look. Jenny couldn't deny that the man was attractive, and this picture clearly showed his charismatic personality. Both his attractive qualities and his charisma were what set Jenny on edge about him . . . she felt like he'd be easier to look at as a serial killer if he was ugly. But since he was attractive, she figured that she'd easily fall prey to him, following him home from some bar. And then, who knows what he would do to her?

She sighed, shook her head as she closed her eyes, and gazed at the column accompanying his picture, reading further, _"Some speculations include that Ryan was taken so that Carroll could kill him, so that Carroll could torture him, or so that later if necessary Carroll could hold him hostage against the FBI. 'One cannot know what Joe Carroll may want him for,' FBI Agent and Cult specialist Deborah Parker said in a press conference, 'All we can do at the current time is hope that Ryan is alive and that we can locate Carroll as soon as possible in order to ensure Ryan's safety.' When questioned concerning the fact that none of Ryan's blood was found at the scene of the abduction, Deborah remarked, 'It can be understood that although Ryan did not want to go with whoever came to get him, he certainly did not put up a fight.' When questioned regarding that statement, Deborah went on to say, 'There is no limit to what Carroll could have used against Ryan to make him comply with the killer's wishes. Joe Carroll is an incredibly manipulative and dangerous man. If anyone sees someone who may look like him or any followers who have been shown in the news, they are asked to report it to the FBI immediately.'" _

Jenny sighed gazing at the paper, reading over what remained silently, forgetting to read it aloud as she became more immersed into the article. "So what else did they say?" Krissi said, resting her head over Jenny's shoulder, frowning, cutting into Jenny's thoughts. Jenny sighed and leaned back, blinking, "An agent, Mike Weston, woke up after he was in a coma due to being attacked by some followers. He's provided a description to the FBI about what Roderick, some guy in league Carroll who helped abduct Weston, looks like. Apparently Roderick's very important to Carroll. The FBI has also asked for people to look for Roderick as well. The FBI has commented that Roderick or Joe or any members of the cult could be anywhere. So everyone needs to keep an eye out for any of the cult in order to aid the investigation." "So what does this Roderick guy look like?" Krissi asked, frowning at the paper. Jenny frowned and lifted up the paper so that the girl could see the sketch of Roderick near the bottom of the page that had been leaked to the press. Krissi gave a whistle as her eyes took in Roderick's features, taking another drag on her joint, "Damn, are we sure that either of them has to go to jail? Both that Carroll guy and Roderick look cute!" "They're also potential killers who wouldn't think twice of murdering any of us," Jenny replied, setting her jaw hard as she glowered at both men and slapped the paper closed so that all she saw was Ryan's face. She'd read the man's book, Poetry of a Killer. So, she knew all too well what Carroll was capable of. It made her fear for Hardy's own wellbeing. She hoped he was ok. . .

Krissi rolled her eyes, "Whatever. I still think that they play him up far too much. No one could be that bad. . ." she took a long drag on her joint and blew smoke at the ceiling of the cab, "I bet all either one of them needs is a good night. . ." "I'm pretty sure their good night is very different from yours, Krissi," Jenny muttered, frowning at Ryan's face, smoothing her hands over the wrinkled sheet of paper slowly and gently. She hoped the FBI could find him soon. "Enough talk about that," Tim snapped suddenly, glaring out of his windshield, "It's not like it matters to us anyway . . . as if we would ever be able to help the FB. . ." "LOOK OUT FOR THAT DEER!" Krissi suddenly interrupted him by shouting, lunging forward and pointing.

Tim yelped as the huge doe bounded out of the woods. "DAMMITALLTOHELL!" the man roared as he jerked the wheel and swerved in an attempt to go around the animal, but not soon enough to miss the large deer slamming hard into the grill of his car. He cursed loudly over the sound of his radio as the creaking of metal was heard from the front of his car, before the deer in question flew off and out from the car and into the ditch as the truck moved onward. The man sighed, put his forehead against the steering wheel momentarily, then lifted his head back again and swerved into a ditch, slamming on the parking brake and making everyone in the truck jolt forward. Wrenching off his seatbelt, the man snarled and opened his door angrily, "DAMMIT!" Jenny stared after him as he walked to the front of the car to see the damage, Jimmy's beer now spilt all over her seat and paper.

In front of the car, they could see Tim curse more and slam a fist onto the metal hood of the car before withdrawing it quickly. Jenny sighed and let herself out slowly before walking around to the front of the vehicle, her hands jammed into her front pockets, "How bad is it?" Tim snarled and pointed, fury in his gaze, "Look!" She did, and stared. Half of the grill was caved in, bloody deer fur stuck to the edges of it. And the headlight on the left side was hanging out by its wires, barely connected to the car . . . she sighed and rolled her head back to gaze at the sky, her eyes closed as she leaned back against the part of the grill that wasn't quite so damaged. "I don't even want to start to think about how much this'll cost to fix," he snarled, running a hand through his hair before kicking the car hard. He sighed after a moment and moved forward, "Well, since you're out here, help me get the headlight in further. Then we can find something to secure it better for now." She opened her eyes and turned to him, before pushing herself up off of the grill of the truck and moving her hands out of her pockets, "Alright." She moved over and the two gripped the headlight, about to put it back in its hole. "Alright, here we go," he muttered, "Try not to hurt anything else by putting the light back in. . ." "Everyone alright?" a voice suddenly drawled behind them.

Jenny frowned and turned around at the same time that Tim did. There before them was a blonde haired attractive but still average looking man walking up in a sheriff's uniform. Tim smiled weakly and rubbed the back of his head, trying to bury his anger at what had just happened to his car, "Yeah, I guess. Damn doe . . . tore up the truck. . ." The sheriff flipped his hair a bit and cracked a smile at the two of them. Jenny frowned and tilted her head to the side, gazing at the sheriff with a bit of worry on her face. There was just something about him that was so familiar to her, but she couldn't put a name to him or realize where she'd seen him before . . . she glanced at his tag. "Nelson" . . . she couldn't remember seeing that name before.

Nelson smiled at Tim, "Yeah, happens a lot out here on these old back roads. Where you folks headed anyway?" his eyes moved to Jenny, and she saw a look in them that although at first glance appeared to be unthreatening, held a layer of threat beneath that. She didn't want to look at him any longer, and turning around, leaned forward on the car, gazing at the red paint on the hood that had gotten chipped a little as the metal had been bent by the doe. Bearing down on the hood on her arms resting atop it, she put a nail to the hood's surface and scratched at the chipped paint, making it chip off more. Tim always did all of the talking for the group anyway. He didn't need her to pay attention. Tim moved and leaned with his backside against the grill, and in the corner of her eye she saw him hook his thumbs into some of the belt loops of his jeans, "Heading back to Adams, Tennessee. We had a little vacation, with me, Jenny here, my sister Krissi, and Jenny's boyfriend Jimmy."

Sheriff Nelson smiled in response, "Well, I hate to break it to ya folks, but you're headed the wrong way if that's your destination." Jenny sighed and turned around to have her backside against the front of the truck too, as small bugs in the high grass of the ditch began to bite at her legs. _Great. So it'll take us even LONGER to get home than I thought._ Tim frowned, "Really? But I could have sworn the map had said . . ." Nelson chuckled and shook his head, eyes closed, "I know, I know. A lot of people have that problem with these back roads. They get turned around reeeal easily. . ." he held out a folded up map, and walking forward, laid it on the hood of the truck before he began to unfold it to show them a map of Virginia. He pointed at a route near Havenport that was the road Tim had thought they were on, "You see, you THINK you're on this road. . . Really you're on this one. . ." he turned and pointed to another route that was at least 50 miles away from the one they needed to be on and that headed up north from Havenport. "You should have made this turn here. . ." Nelson went on cheerfully, pointing at where the two roads intersected. With that, he continued to explain where they needed to go, which was back towards Havenport. Suddenly, he turned to Tim, blinking at him with a frown on the sheriff's face, "I hate to think that due to that simple confusion your car got messed up like it did . . . hmmmm . . . ." he stroked his chin and tilted his head down, before looking up at Tim, his back to Jenny. "There's this workshop on the way back to the main road. They could at least fix your car up to make sure you don't have any major issues with it till you get back home. How about it? I can call a tow truck, they can take all four of ya back with them to the workshop. Then they can have you fixed up and ready to go home in about two hours! It can be all on my tab. I swear," He grinned, flashing his pearly whites at the man in a winning smile. Tim smiled right back, "Sheriff Nelson, I definitely like how you think. And I appreciate your help!" Nelson turned and grinned at Jenny, who frowned back at him, blinking, gritting her teeth as the man's eyes moved up and down her body, "My pleasure." Turning, he headed back to his car to call the workshop.

A few minutes later, a tow truck was carrying Sally to the workshop in front of a smaller pick up with tinted windows where the four teens sat scrunched up inside along with two workers from the shop. Jimmy, Krissi, and Jenny were scrunched up in the back, each looking off in random directions with Jenny looking out the window on the driver's side of the car where she sat, Jimmy stroking Jenny's leg slowly as he smiled at her, still a bit out of it as he took the occasional swig of his beer, Krissi on his other side blinking out the window. Tim sat up in front between the two men from the work shop, his eyes focused mostly on Sally, his arms crossed firmly in front of him. "Thanks for helping us on this short notice," Tim said, glancing at the two men. One, a man with greased back black hair and a mustache and goatee, smirked at him as he drove the truck, "No prob." Tim smiled weakly and turned his gaze back so that he looked in front of him through the dirty windshield at his precious vehicle. Jenny frowned hard out of her own window, deep in thought. Where _had _she seen that sheriff before?! She knew she'd seen him before, she just couldn't remember where! She sighed and shook her head. Maybe she would never know. . .

She suddenly saw something on the floor that caught her eye. She leaned down and whisked the dirty wrinkled newspaper up and sat it in her lap. The woman stared with her mouth open at Ryan Hardy's face on the front as reality struck her like a lightning bolt, rattling her to her core. She whipped the newspaper open quickly and flipped to page 9A and stared at the sketch on the bottom of the page. Jimmy frowned, turning his head lazily to her, "What's goin' on, Jenn? Didn't you already read that article?" She didn't answer him. She wasn't able to answer him as shock washed over her. All she could do was stare at the picture sketch of "Roderick", as her mind flashed back to the sheriff's face. _"It was him," _she whispered, _"It was Roderick . . ." _Kerri frowned, taking a drag on the joint she'd brought with her, "What?"

Jenny stared at the headrest of the chair in front of her. But she didn't see the headrest's back with the cigarette burn holes scarring its surface. All she saw was Sheriff Nelson's face. "_The Sheriff's him. . . _THE SHERIFF'S RODERICK!" she shrieked suddenly. She whipped her head around and stared at the work shop worker on the other side of the car as he turned around in the passenger side seat. He had long blonde hair that was greasy and pulled into a ponytail with murky green eyes. She expected to see terror on his face, but instead of a look of worry, he only frowned at her, "The blonde knows more than we thought she would, huh Max?" "Yeah, I would have figured one of the others would have picked up on it first, John," the driver laughed. Tim frowned, his eyes still on the vehicle in front of them, "What? What did Jenny pick up on?" He had no idea what was going on, and neither did Krissi or Jimmy. Unfortunately, Jenny did. She knew what was going on all too well, especially as they passed a sign that said that they had been on the right road all along.

Jenny gasped, unbuckled and turning around to face the door as she fumbled with her door's handle frantically, the cab of the smaller truck having four doors, two for the back and two for the front of the cab. She felt terror fill her as the door wouldn't unlock, not even if she pressed her unlock button. She turned and banged on the glass, crying out in a panic, "LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME. . ." the pistol fired, and blood splattered on the window as she stared dead ahead, the bullet having gone straight into the back of her skull and out the front, bits of brain matter and skull hitting the window before she fell against it face first, sliding down slowly to slump against the door, lifeless. "JENNY!" Jimmy shrieked as he stared at her lifeless body. Turning, he began to struggle with his buckle of his seat belt, staring at the man on the passenger's side of the front seat who had shot his girlfriend, "WHAT THE HELL MAN?!" In the next instant he found the same gun used to kill Jenny pointed at his forehead, as John looked at him sternly head on, "Sorry kid. You've seen too much," he muttered without a hint of remorse in his voice. The pistol fired again, and blood flew onto the back window, as the man slammed into it, eyes rolled back, to slump in his seat and roll over to lean on his girlfriend's dead body, now dead himself.

Tim growled and turned to both of the men, first to Max and then to John, who frowned at him icily. Tim snarled, narrowing his own eyes angrily and confusedly, "What the fuck do you guys think you're doing?" Suddenly, still managing the wheel, Max wrapped an arm quickly around Tim's throat, and flipping out a razor he'd had concealed there, the driver sliced Tim's throat cleanly and deeply. As the man gurgled and writhed in the seat, his blood flowing down his front, Krissi screamed, moments before John twisted around and his bullets went thrice into her chest and once into her forehead. Tim groaned and collapsed, both brother and sister now dead, into Max's lap, eyes wide and lifeless in death, and his neck wound opening up wide as he lay there. Max chuckled down at him, and reaching down, stroked the side of Tim's neck, "Shame . . . this one was a pretty one . . . coulda had a lot of fun with him." Tim's eyes only gazed lifelessly up at the driver.

"Heh, you know that that won't stop you, you're into necrophilia shit," John chuckled, reaching into Tim's pocket and pulling out his cigarettes before bringing one out and lighting it before putting it to his lips, glancing at Jenny who lay slumped against the window, "I may try it myself with that pretty little piece of meat back there. Got a nice bod to her. Can't believe she was with that loser. I'd believe she was with that little dick you like before I'd believe she was with that asshole back there." Max chuckled, running his fingers surprisingly gently over Tim's cooling lips, "Maybe she didn't want that ugly-as-hell bitch back there to be her sister-in-law?" "That could definitely be it. Her brother definitely got the good looks in the family," John chuckled. Max smirked, "Got that right." The two hadn't gathered much about the group they'd just killed, but they'd known enough to know who the siblings were and who was dating who. After that, the two men drove on in silence, with Max occasionally glancing down and running his hand through Tim's bloody locks of hair and John reloading his gun, both coming down from the high they'd felt at killing the four young people. After they'd driven for a good five minutes, they let the tow truck go onward before pulling off onto the side of the road. They had a phone call to make.

John grinned and pulled out his disposable cell phone and flipped it open, hitting Speed Dial #2 immediately. Once it was ringing, he chuckled happily and put the phone on the speakerphone setting, holding it out in front of the silent radio so that Max could hear the words on the other line as well. The ringing soon stopped and Roderick's icy cold voice came over the line, _"Did you take them out?" _The two men nodded, each answering in the affirmative. _"Good. Now call Tom and Paul, and tell them to take the car to Florida and dump it in a swamp there. Then take the bodies and once you cut them up and dump ammonia on them, dump them in Oklahoma. Understand?" _The two men nodded, "_Gotcha." _And snapped the phone closed before grinning at one another and high fiving one another. After they had their fun with the bodies, they'd for sure do just as Roderick had requested.

As he drove back to the house, Roderick couldn't help but feel pride swell up within him. He wasn't going to deny that he thrived on the feeling of controlling the members of the cult. With one word, he could cause them to kill without the least bit of hesitation. Even if it was one of their own. He adored that feeling, because for so long his own father had used brute force to exert his own form of control over Roderick and Roderick's mother, Tammy Nelson. Roderick remembered well the night he'd slipped rat poisoning into his father's beer. Luckily, he'd thought to wear his mother's gloves, causing the evidence to imply that his mother was to blame. Roderick had been moved to live with his doting aunt and uncle who had paid for his final rowdy teen years.

The one issue he'd had with getting away with that murder was that he wasn't able to tell anyone about his clever murder of his father. There was only one person who had been able to see through the thick façade Roderick had been putting up over the years. That particular person was someone that Roderick met while he went to college at Winslow University. That person was Professor Joseph Carroll. Through knowing Joe, "Tim Nelson" had taken on a new persona, "Roderick", and he had been able to do what he'd always craved to do. He'd been able to control others.

He'd found followers of Carroll while the serial killer was in prison. Upon the man being sentenced to death, Roderick had set about finding followers who would be the most susceptible to being controlled. He'd been able to gather controllable leaders, dominants, passive aggressives, and submissives, all of whom having differing traits and specialties. In this way, he was able to build a successful cult for Carroll. In fact, he'd formed one of the largest, most successful cults in the United States. He had been able to do this for Joe while still maintaining his own career as a law enforcement officer. Singlehandedly, he'd been able to create the cult. Sure, Carroll might have been the bait or inspiration to draw the people in, but without Roderick and his hard work, the followers would have been no more than a pathetic, useless, fan club.

Roderick finally pulled up to the gate where one follower, an old gardener named Bob, was waiting to let him through the gate. As the man undid the chain that locked the two doors of the gate together and pushed the gate open, Roderick let a slow, confident grin cross his face, savoring the thought of his own importance within the cult. Bob turned to Roderick, smiled, and waved him through. Roderick chuckled and coasted on through the opening.

He definitely felt that he had earned every ounce of respect and control he expected and exerted here. Which was why Joe's actions recently were beginning to get on his nerves. For the longest time, Roderick had considered himself Joe's "right-hand man" who could handle the most serious tasks required to keep the cult running smoothly. He'd felt that with Joe's return, the greatest murder spree that the American Government would ever have to deal with would be sprung with the cult killing as many people as there were seconds in the day. It was a glorious fantasy to have, imagining everyone being unleashed upon America, with Joe at the head and Roderick right there with him. But rather than have that result, to Roderick's great chagrin ever since Joe had come to the house, Roderick had only been running "errands" for Joe, first to get Claire for the man, then Ryan. The errand for Ryan was a sore spot for Roderick, primarily because Ryan was in Roderick's mind Joe's enemy. Still, Roderick had gone through with it as well as Claire's abduction. Yet neither had ended the way he'd expected them to.

In regards to Claire, Roderick had assumed that Joe had wanted to romance her back into loving him again. He'd figured that Joe wanted Ryan in order to hold Ryan hostage in order to torture the agent, kill the agent, or keep the FBI at bay if worse came to worse. But, Joe didn't seem to have either plan in mind for either Ryan or Claire. He hadn't seen, much less spoken to Claire since she'd arrived at the house and had only just barely seen or spent time with Joey. And, even though Ryan _was _being held hostage, given what Roderick had observed thus far Joe's intentions regarding Ryan weren't exactly what Roderick had originally suspected them to be.

As if to further Roderick's anger, no matter how many times Roderick had asked Joe to tell him what the man had planned for the cult to do next, Joe refused to talk about what he had planned next. That lack of information irked Roderick greatly. It made Roderick question why he had helped Carroll form the cult in the first place. He couldn't help but feel as though Joe had sold him a lie way back when Roderick was in college. Joe had seemed like the kind of guy who made his priorities perfectly clear to Roderick. Roderick had felt like the first priority for Carroll was to kill and to keep killing. Roderick had felt like the second was everything else.

It seemed to Roderick that that Joe had been a façade and nothing more, used to reel Roderick into Joe's ultimate plot. After all, if killing was JOE'S number one priority, shouldn't that translate into the cult being for the most part some sort of killing machine? And yet here Roderick was, running errands for Joe and keeping people from getting within a 10 mile perimeter of the safe house.

Roderick sighed and shook his head. He recalled one time when he was eight years old. He'd gotten a low grade on a test and his father had been tired from a hard day at work. Those two factors, along with the two beers his father had already had when Roderick showed him the test, had concluded in a very physical and verbal beating of little Timmy Nelson. Such abuse had sent Roderick fleeing from the house to an old swing out at the far edge of the large back yard that the family had owned. As he'd sat there, crying as his mother tried to reason with his drunken father in the house and thus causing the man to shout all the more angrily and loudly, movement on one of the rusted chains holding the swing from the posts anchoring it to the ground caught Roderick's attention.

Upon closer inspection, Roderick had realized that it was a rather large army ant, doubled over in the chains and attempting to fight off a seemingly disadvantaged looking greenish yellow spider whose main body was equal to only half of the army ant's in size and whose small spindly legs worked rapidly to try to gain control over the ant, which had crawled without meaning to into the web the spider had meticulously woven between the chains of the swing. Roderick had sniffled, wiped his nose, and continued to watch the struggle between the two.

Just when the ant seemed to gain the upper-hand and the power that inherently came with that advantage and it looked like the ant could safely get away, the spider backed off a little. Roderick had thought that the arachnid was simply giving up, and the young boy had been about to lose interest. But instead, the spider had twisted its legs around a certain way, and like a spring being released, the web that the ant was at that point tangled up in sprang away from the chain. That sent the ant into the innermost tangles of the web. It was at that moment forever caught in the spider's trap. And Roderick's attention was at that point captive to the event playing out before him.

Roderick had watched in fascination and awe as the spider had moved quickly and skillfully with great confidence along the strands of its web and had bound the unlucky ant up securely in new webbing. Next, he watched as the spider injected its unfortunate prey with chemicals that would slowly turn the ant's insides to mush and prepare it to be the spider's next meal.

Now, Roderick felt as though he had been that ant, wandering into the intricate trap or system that had been produced meticulously by Joe's mind. He felt as though Joe had latched onto him and had fostered Roderick's violent side, while binding him closer and trapping him in the system with each murder that Joe helped Roderick commit. Then, Joe had backed away and had gone to prison. And as Joe'd confessed to killing the girls that Roderick had murdered, Joe'd moved in such a way that had sprung the trap he'd set up and had sent Roderick inescapably into the intricate system of the "novel" that Joe was working to create in reality.

Roderick only could hope that Joe didn't intend to finish the last of the spider analogy with Roderick, by completely destroying and devouring the blonde sheriff. That was another thing that made Roderick upset. He DIDN'T know what Joe's plan was, or what was the ultimate goal of the intricate web Joe was creating. Without that knowledge, how could he possibly hope to maintain control over the situation? Would he even last much longer in the situation? Surely Joe wouldn't kill him off!? Surely Joe saw that he was one of the reasons the cult was as well organized and together and functioning as it was! At least, Roderick hoped Joe could see it.

As the house came into view up ahead and the driveway straightened out, Roderick sighed, and closing his eyes leaned forward and pressed his now sweaty forehead against the steering wheel of the car. A part of him wanted to back out of the cult while he still had a bit of control. Another part was too scared of what Joe may do to him if he tried to leave. He was definitely torn between desires, and it greatly stressed him out.

He lifted his head back, shook his head, sighed, and opened his eyes. As soon as his eyes opened, he gasped, quickly slamming on the brakes as terror filled him due to the person standing in the dead center of the driveway. When he realized that the brakes couldn't sufficiently keep his car from hitting the person he gritted his teeth and with a jerk of the wheel swerved to the right, going off into the large grass yard in front of the house.

As soon as he put the car into park, he unbuckled his seatbelt and clamored out of the vehicle, not even slamming the door closed as he stared in fear at the person on the pavement, standing in black gym shorts, black socks, all black Nike shoes, and a black muscle shirt. The man had his arms crossed over his chest, and did _not_ look pleased. Joe Carroll stood tall in the early morning mist, his face unreadable, his eyes holding a cold, stony look in them, his mouth set in a firm line, his jaw set firmly in place, as immovable as the man it belonged to. Roderick rushed over and onto the pavement to stand trembling before the older man, his hands held out in front of him in apology, "JOE! I'M SO SORRY! I SWEAR I DIDN'T KNOW YOU'D BE THERE! I SWEAR I DIDN'T SEE YOU TIL I LOOKED UP! I JUST, I . . ." Joe's hand and arm moved lightning fast, and all Roderick saw before the backhanded slap hit him across the face was a blur of movement. The next instant, he was lying on his right side on the pavement, his newly split lip dribbling with blood, his right side full of pain from where it had hit the asphalt. He slowly turned to lie on his back more, and stared at the leader of the cult he'd formed.

Joe's originally neutral face had quickly transformed and contorted into a face of extreme anger, his eyes alight with a fire burning with anger and disgust within them, his lips curled back in revulsion. _"J-Joe, wh-what's. . ." _Roderick stammered. Joe cut the man's sentence off with a snarl and a firm kick to Roderick's abdomen, rolling Roderick over to face away from the man. Roderick cried out at the hit and cringed up as the deadly spider walked around his head area and knelt down on the balls of his feet to glower at the army ant up close and personal. Joe reached out and grabbed Roderick's chin roughly, jerking the man's face up and around so that Roderick had no choice but to stare into the cult leader's furious face. Roderick cringed.

Joe then opened his clenched, barred teeth and snarled at the man in a voice that was so full of anger and hate that it only promised pain and suffering, "WHAT THE HELL, RODERICK?! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, YOU IDIOT?!" Roderick cried out as the harsh fist slammed into his cheek, moments before Joe let go and stood up, walking around to Roderick's backside and snarling, "ANSWER ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY!" he slammed a harsh kick into Roderick's spine, sending pain through the man who shut his eyes tight and cried out, rolling over onto his stomach. Roderick panted hard against the asphalt, moments before he felt Joe put a shoe on the man's middle back area and push down. Roderick felt his ribs creak and his face press painfully into the pavement as Joe snarled, "WHY THE HELL DID YOU LET THOSE DAMN PUNKS GET SO CLOSE?! ANSWER ME!" Joe roared. Roderick turned and stared at Joe, who pulled out his gun and pointed it right at Roderick's face, an icy cold look going into his eyes, as he muttered in a voice so cold it sent a chill down Roderick's spine and caused the color to leave the blonde haired man's face, _"You better answer me right now Roderick, or your brain will paint this driveway red." _Roderick stuttered incoherently in shock before stammering out, "W-wh-what are you talking about?! They're gone!" Joe snarled, glowering at him, "THAT'S NOT THE POINT RODERICK!" he pulled the trigger, a click sounded, and Roderick jumped with a yelp, staring at him with wide eyes as Joe narrowed his eyes, "Next time it's a live shot. Now tell me! Why did you let those idiots get so close?!"

* * *

OH NOS! THE EVIL OF CLIFFHANGERS! GAAAAAAAAAH! lol, I promise I will have the next chapter out as soon as I can. To be honest, much of it is already written in rough draft form. It was actually originally meant to go with this chapter, but it is already 14 pages long (and is going to get longer), and this one was already 14 1/2 pages long. So I felt, that to make it easier on the reader, I'd separate them. Also, please note that I do not approve of Necrophilia, nor do I support it. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I would love to hear what you have to say about it! Please give me reviews! They feed my plot bunnies! ;)


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